


Teen Wolf Short Prompts

by alexenglish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, BDSM, Bad Flirting, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, College, Coming Out, Coyote Malia Tate, Domme Lydia, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Lapdance, Lingerie, Literal Sleeping Together, Long-Distance Relationship, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Nurse Scott McCall, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Pseudo-Incest, Recreational Drug Use, Rope Bondage, Sharing Clothes, Shotgunning, Stiles has bad ideas, Stoners Scott McCall/Stiles Stilinski, Touch-Starved, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Scott McCall, Underage Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-05-28 07:39:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 29,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6320470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the title says. Check chapter titles for pairing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. McHaleinski: Stiles' 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mchaleinski: A Drunk Kiss + A Kiss Below The Waist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Char <3

“You should kiss me,” Stiles pouts. There’s a slur to his words. It’s his 21st birthday, and he’s a little drunk, maybe a lot drunk, cheeks a deep pink, eyes bright and shining, and going cross eyed from staring so hard.

“Why would I do that?” Derek asks, shoving the loft door open so Stiles can meander in, limbs loose and watery. He heads straight for the couch, falling down onto the cushions, groaning and rubbing his face against them like a cat. 

He’s very _cat like_ , Derek has noticed. It’s not just his almond eyes, or the mischievous look he gets on his face. It’s the way he rubs all over everything, begging for attention, but runs off when he gets too much, like he can’t handle the pressure of too much affection.

Derek rolls his eyes, grabbing a bottle of water for him and throwing it at his head before unlocking his phone to call Scott.

“Come get your boyfriend,” Derek snaps, when Scott picks up. “He’s rubbing himself all over my couch like a cat in heat.”

“Heat is the fucking thing, right?” Stiles asks, after Derek hangs up, making a thoughtful face before biting his lip and looking straight at Derek. His hand is doing – God knows what, Derek doesn’t know, because he’s looking at Stiles’ face, not his crotch. “That sounds like fun. Fucking.”

“Your boyfriend is coming,” Derek says, firmly, ignoring the way Stiles’ tongue darts out to wet his pink lips, making them shiny. 

“ _God_ , I hope so,” Stiles says, hands coming up behind his head, dreamy smile on his face. At least he’s stopped palming himself. “It’s fun when Scott comes. He comes _a lot_. Is that a werewolf thing?”

“Is what a werewolf thing?” Derek asks, only half listening, trying very hard not to imagine Scott coming. It’s not working. 

“Jizz,” Stiles says. He says it slow, draws out the syllable like it’s a fine wine that he’s tasting. “Lots of jizz.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“Why don’t you want to hear about Scott’s jizz, Derek?” Stiles asks, very seriously. He props himself up on his elbows, wobbles, and lies back down, slow blinking at the ceiling. “I like his jizz. I like sucking him off and making him come on my face.”

“Fuck,” Derek groans, going hot at the mental image _that_  supplies, and the way his imagination readily spews out that mental image. Scott’s probably the kind of person to rub Stiles’ head, call him a good boy because he’s on his knees, covered in Scott’s come. Derek wonders if he licks it off Stiles’ face after, feeds it to Stiles with his tongue.

Derek is going to hell.

“He got really embarrassed the first time,” Stiles says, changing positions on the couch again. His legs are sprawled out wide, and he smells like arousal. It does nothing to help Derek’s quickly developing hard on. “But he loves it, _I_  love it. God. I love blowing him, he’s got such a nice cock.”

“Me?” Scott asks, coming through the door. Derek’s attention snaps from Stiles then, because he didn’t even _hear_ him approach. Heartbeat, the sound of his footsteps, nothing. He was too caught up in hearing about his and Stiles’ blowjob adventures.

“God, yes, you,” Stiles says, with a happy grin. He launches himself off the couch and into Scott’s arms. Scott catches him easily, mouth slotting with Stiles’ like he anticipated it. The kiss is messy, because Stiles is drunk, all tongues and teeth, lips slick with spit. Scott isn’t shy about exchanging kisses, apparently, and Derek can’t look away. 

“Derek won’t kiss me,” Stiles says, when they break apart. He leans his forehead against Scott’s, and looks at Derek with an accusing expression. Derek attempts to swallow down the hot feeling of guilt about his response to what Stiles is saying, but it’s useless, his dick isn’t fully soft yet.

“You’re drunk,” Scott says, laughing. He doesn’t seem mad, but he can’t possibly just be _okay_  with Stiles wanting to kiss Derek. He might not have been here, but Derek probably still smells turned on. “I barely want to kiss you when you’re drunk.”

“He probably won’t kiss me when I’m not-drunk,” Stiles pouts, slumping lower in Scott’s grasp so Scott has to catch him, hold him up. 

“You have to ask when you’re not-drunk,” Scott says, rolling his eyes. He looks faintly embarrassed when he meets Derek’s eyes, but doesn’t say anything as he arranges Stiles so his arm is slung over Scott’s shoulders. “We talked about this remember?”

“Don’t scare the big bad wolf off,” Stiles snickers, nuzzling Scott’s cheek. “I’ll ask you when I’m not-drunk, Der – Der _ek_. Sorry. Not-drunk, right.”

“Prepared yourself for apologies,” Scott says, smiling a little at Derek. Derek drags his eyes away from Stiles, mind whirling. It’s a lot to process, both of them looking at him so intensely. 

“And propositions!” Stiles says, with a weak fist bump. They start towards the door, wrapped up in each other tight. “I’ma get a kiss. Then, a threesome!”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Scott snorts, letting Stiles drag him along. Neither of them look back at Derek, just leave Derek feeling a little aroused and a lot lost. 

Before bed, he gets a text from Stiles:

_If you wanna threesome, I’ll let you come on my face too! Both of youu!!_

(Then the next, early afternoon:

_Fuck my fucking life._

_I’m an embarrassment._

_We need to talk. I’m coming over, maybe make me pancakes. It’s my birthday!_ )

(Stiles definitely gets his kiss.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/130385196822/13-19-mchaleinski-d)


	2. McHaleinski: Great Kitten Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt fill for Char: something about someone swooning

Derek wakes up in the hospital. White tile, white ceiling, too-thin blanket over top of him. The beep of monitors is on his right, the echo of foot steps and voices as the nurses make their rounds. The smell of smoke is still clogging up his nostrils, choking him. His whole body is sore in a way that’s not fun. 

“Right on time,” someone says, coming into the room. It’s a nurse in floral patterned scrubs, giving him a soft smile. Derek groans in response as they take his vitals, small hands quickly strapping the blood pressure cuff on him, writing down his pulse. 

“How do you feel?” they ask. “You inhaled a lot of smoke. There’s some second hand burns on your arms. You’re lucky that they pulled you out when they did.”

“I’m okay,” Derek lies. He’s close to panicking, trying not to think about the fire. 

“That’s good,” the nurse says, smiling. It’s a really nice smile. “I just gave you another dose of pain killers. I’m Scott, I’ll be taking care of you until shift change okay?”

“Okay,” Derek says. 

“Are you okay with getting visitors?” Scott asks. It feels like they’re hovering. “Your family was by, but, uh. You have someone else who wants to see you.”

“Sure,” Derek says, blinking, trying to think about anyone who would insist on seeing him as Scott disappears into the hall. He comes back with Stiles Stilinski trailing behind him. 

“ _Stiles_?”

“You’re an idiot,” Stiles says, watching him. He puts his hand on Derek’s ankle. It’s reassuring. “It was a cat, Derek. A cat.”

“I’m fine,” Derek says, eyes darting between Stiles and Scott. Scott looks like they’re stifling a grin, making themself busy with the chart in their hands. Derek doesn’t know why they’re still in the room.

“You fainted,” Stiles says, throwing his hands up. Derek gets a better look at him, the obvious exhaustion on his face. “– Straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

“I didn’t rescue kittens from a burning building to get your attention, Stiles,” Derek says. What an absurd idea. Stiles looks a little frantic, though, so he wants to be reassuring. “I’m glad it worked though.”

“If you wanted to go on a date, you could have just asked,” Scott says, sagely. Derek blinks at them, confused. “Sorry, not my business.”

“I mean, it’s tangentially your business,” Stiles mutters, shooting Scott a grin.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, still muddied. It might be the pain killers, but he feels like he’s missing something. “Do you two know each other?”

“Oh god,” Scott says, as Stiles bursts out laughing.

“Oh no.”

“’Oh no’ is right,” Scott replies, hitting Stiles with his clipboard. “I’m Scott. Scott McCall, I’m –”

“Stiles’ lovefriend,” Derek says, face heating up in mortification. 

“I thought you said something!” Stiles says, gesturing wildly.

“I told him my name, Stiles,” Scott says, patiently. “I took his vitals, because that’s my job. It’s not my job to tell him that I’m your lovefriend.”

“Derek, this is Scott,” Stiles says, sighing, gesturing between them. The whole situation gets more funny, as Stiles gets more red. “Scott, this is Derek. Lovefriend, crush, crush, lovefriend.”

“You have a crush on me?” Derek asks, eyes widening. Stiles’ mouth drops open and Scott bursts out laughing.

“You’re right Stiles, he’s perfect,” Scott says, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ cheek. “I have more rounds, I’ll be back.”

“They’re cute,” Derek says, as soon as Scott is out of the room. Stiles grins at him, pleased, and sits at the end of the bed, taking his hand. 

“I’m glad you think so. I think you two would get along.”

They look at each other for a minute longer. Derek wants to tell Stiles to get some sleep, to maybe take a shower because he’s still got a little soot at his hairline. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since the fire, since Stiles and the crew pulled him out, but Stiles has probably been sitting outside the hospital room the whole time.

“So, about that date,” Stiles says, before Derek can say any of that. Derek laughs, squeezing his hand tightly. The kittens were worth it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/135791181142/mchaleinski-38-bonus-points-if-dereks-the-one)


	3. Sciles: Stiles' Crush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous said: I love the idea of Stiles realizing that he's into Scott after some girl in seventh grade makes fun of Scott's crooked jaw and all Stiles can think is "he's beautiful." After they start sharing a dorm room and feelings come out Stiles sucks bruises into Scott's jaw at every opportunity.
> 
> sleepy-skittles: aleeex write me wee baby skittles with Stiles realizing he is crushing on Scott

Maybe that was when Stiles realized that he was attracted to Scott. Maybe he spent the next week analyzing Scott and everything that Scott did, trying to pinpoint the inception of his crush. Had it always been there? Had it developed slowly over time? Had it began in the moment that McKenzie laughed at Scott about his asymmetry, when Stiles’ knee-jerk reaction was defense instead of agreeing?

On anyone else it might be disconcerting, take away from the appeal, but on Scott it was exactly how Scott looked, how Scott was supposed to look. Maybe Stiles spent too much time fixated on the mole that was on the side of Scott’s jaw, envisioned biting it too many times. Maybe that thought was too much. Acknowledging his crush was okay, but that, thinking that, was too invasive, going too far.

Stiles didn’t want to be the person to be friends with Scott because he wanted Scott. That wasn’t why they were friends. They were friends because they were soul mates, yin and yang; because Stiles couldn’t function without Scott, not really, it wouldn’t be worth it to exist without Scott.

Maybe that was too co-dependent for a best friendship, but Stiles couldn’t stop the pure overwhelming nature of his feelings, he could only shove them away and bury them deep. He could only put them in a place that was mostly-inaccessible, untouched by everyday thoughts.

If he wanted to think of Scott like that, he had to call on the thoughts, acknowledge them and that only happened when he was tired, teetering on the edge of sleep, in that weird in-between where everything was strange and unreal, queer.

Or when he’s drunk. Then, the thoughts rush in unbidden.

(But that’s later, in high school, after they’ve both had girlfriends, dated. After Stiles realizes that feelings are relative to people, that being in love doesn’t mean that it feels the same every time. Maybe Stiles realizes that being in love with someone, anyone, will not be the same as being in love with Scott. That nothing will be as all-consuming and important as being in love with Scott. That nothing will be as devastating.)

Maybe that’s how Scott finds out about it all. Maybe Stiles is wasted and full of pity for himself, his unrequited love. Maybe he starts spouting about spending his life pining and Scott tries to reassure him that, eventually, one day, Lydia will realize just how great he is. One day.

Maybe Stiles laughs bitterly and stands up straight, eyes bright with alcohol, but determined.

“Not Lydia,” he says, gaze boring into Scott so intently that Scott can’t say anything. “You. You, you with your stupid pretty eyes and your huge arms and your dumb jaw, I hate your jaw so much, I want to put my mouth on it, it’s not fair –”

Maybe Stiles realizes what he said and slams his mouth so hard his teeth vibrate with the force of it. Scott doesn’t answer immediately, they just stare at each other for a long time, before Scott blinks, shuttered. Stiles can see it in his face, his body language, the way he closes himself off to Stiles in an instant, the way he says,

“Stiles, you’re drunk,” and Stiles just laughs, bitterly and nods, slumping in on himself. He doesn’t fight it when Scott leads him into the Jeep and drives them home.

“I wasn’t lying,” Stiles says, when Scott drops him into his bed, pulling off his shoes. Scott doesn’t answer and Stiles just passes out.

Maybe they don’t talk about it, not immediately. Not while Scott has a girlfriend or maybe Stiles has a girlfriend. Maybe it takes awhile because it’s too much. It doesn’t change anything significant between them, but there’s a tension that wasn’t there before, a tension that has Stiles pulling back when he goes to touch, not talk as much when they’re together.

Maybe it isn’t until college that it comes up again. In college, it’s different. New place, people, environment. People constantly mistake them for boyfriends and neither of them dispute it, just laugh it off or play it up. They’re tactile enough for it, know everything about each other, it’s not a far stretch.

Maybe it’s easy, pretending that Stiles never confessed his love, that it means more. Maybe Scott thinks it went away? That Stiles not talking about it means that it’s stopped? Of course, it hasn’t, but Scott doesn’t have to know, Scott doesn’t ever have to know.

Maybe they dance together at too many parties, play along with too many people. Maybe one day, Stiles just can’t stand it anymore and when they’re back in their dorm room, he turns, frustrated, years and years of feelings lodged in his throat –

Maybe Scott is already there, hands on his face, pressing their lips together. Maybe he’s cupping a hand around the back of Stiles’ head, reeling him in. Maybe Stiles kisses back, desperately, hands fisting in Scott’s shirt, but he peels away quickly to bite at Scott’s jaw, because he’s always wanted to, sucking marks into the skin even though they disappear in the next instant.

Maybe Scott can’t stop saying his name and Stiles has no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but it means so much, it means everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/124385676677/i-love-the-idea-of-stiles-realizing-that-hes-into)


	4. Sciles: Property Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kuri said: pls tell me your opinion on college age stiles stilinski getting drunk and waking up the next morning with a tramp stamp that says "property of scott mccall" or VICE VERSA

It probably starts with another pack, because it’s the McCall pack and even in college they can’t escape douche bag werewolves who think their breeches are bigger than they really are – Considering their track record with wolves like Jackson, Ethan, Aiden, _Theo_ , Stiles was hoping that out of all the things that “got around” about the True Alpha’s pack, “dealing with dbags” would have been at the top of their resume, but alas, there’s still some stuck-up posturing assholes who get their panties in a bunch about the _True Alpha_ , surprise surprise. 

Of course, there’s members of the Other Pack scattered in each one of the McCall’s pack’s classes. They goad every single member of the pack, but there are no outright challenges so Scott forbids any fighting. They dig into Lydia about how long it took her to control her banshee powers, scoff at Kira’s lack of kitsune knowledge, they even mock Scott about Liam losing control on the super moon, about almost losing his pack when everything with Theo happened.

Stiles is _pissed_  because it’s messed up, and he _knows_  Scott could take them all, but Scott is so docile about the whole thing, despite having more power in one _bicep_  than the entire other pack _combined_. Stiles might just say that to one of the pack members in his math class, take a jab at them being so obviously  _weaker_ , and the beta has the nerve to laugh in his face.

“Why do you care?” he asks, smirk reminding Stiles of Jackson so vividly, Stiles starts getting kanima flashbacks. That’s enough to make Stiles’ hackles rise.

“Because he’s my alpha,” Stiles snarls, barely keeping himself back from punching the dude. 

“Except that you’re human,” the beta says, in a low voice. Stiles’ heart thuds in his ears. “So you’re not actually pack, you know that right?”

“But –” Stiles falters, because _what –_ No. There’s so many factors. There’s scent and what happened with the nogitsune, Scott’s roar _torn them apart_. That’s the definition of pack. Goosebumps break out over Stiles’ skin as the beta smiles at him sharply. 

“Humans aren’t pack,” he says, innocently. _Faux_ innocently, rather. “There’s no real connection. Packs are for supernatural creatures. You just _wish_  you were pack, sticking to their sides because you don’t have a place with anyone else.”

 

 

“You punched him in the _face_?” Scott demands, voice tight and annoyed. Stiles feels immediately chastised, but irritation wells up inside of him. He was _defending_  Scott’s good name, _his_  good name. Stupid bullshit betas.

“It wasn’t a challenge,” Stiles says, sharp and angry so he doesn’t sound as miserable as he feels, reality of the beta’s words sinking into him. “I’m not technically pack.”

“What?” Scott asks, faltering. His eyes go all _hurt_ , like Stiles is denouncing him, but that’s not what it is, not at all. “Of course you’re pack, Stiles. What are you talking about? Is this about –”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles says, immediately, waving his hands to clear the air of any flashbacks he’s going to start having. He still gets a sick, desolated feeling in his chest when he stands outside of the clinic at night, sometimes, thinking about that _night_ , how close they came to losing everything. If there’s a conversation he absolutely doesn’t want to have _again_ , it’s that one. 

“They just don’t recognize me as a pack member,” Stiles says, shifting guiltily. “I’m not a supernatural creature.”

Scott blinks at him, face screwed up in confusion.

“You smell like us,” he says, biting his lip. “I’ve called you with my alpha roar so many times. How –?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says, frustration breaking apart in his chest. It’s bullshit. After everything they’ve been through. He’s not _pack_ , not technically, because a bunch of bullshit rules about the supernatural dictate it. Bull-fucking-shit. 

He’s suddenly so angry he’s blinded by it. A frustrated noise tears out of his throat, heart pounding, and Scott’s looking at him with a deep concern. Stiles groans, and flails his hands. 

“I’m going to go,” he says. He knows Scott can probably smell how anxious and out of sorts he feels, but Scott doesn’t question it. After everything happened senior year, they rebuilt their boundaries differently, and now Scott lets him go without protest. 

Stiles tells himself that it’s _fine_ , that Scott is reacting just right, giving him room to breathe so Stiles doesn’t explode. He wishes he knew why he felt so miserable about it.

 

 

Stiles is drunk. It’s a heavy sort of feeling, probably a deeply terrible idea to be this drunk and sad and miserable, but he is. When he stumbles into the tattoo parlor, the artist makes him drink water and lays him down on the couch until he can actually pee straight. When Stiles assures him that he’s far less drunk than he was before (but still kind of fucking tipsy, but that’s not the point), the tattoo artist chuckles at him and snaps his black gloves on in a way that’s probably not supposed to be menacing, but has Stiles’ balls crawling up into his stomach in fear anyway. 

 

 

Stiles rolls off Scott’s couch in the morning with a pounding headache and a _burning_  lower back. It’s his skin, not his ass, so Stiles knows that him and Scott didn’t have any wild drunken make up sex. Or, at least, Stiles didn’t receive it. If he fucked Scott, though, he assumes he’d be in bed, as opposed to on the _floor_ , previously the couch. Not that Stiles forgot what he did the night before, but he was hoping it was a dream as he jolted awake, desperate for any other explanation for the soreness.

He stumbles into the bathroom, blinking against the bright lights. He’s already shirtless, eyes skipping over the tree tattoo that’s already inked along his ribs and twisting in the mirror. Sure enough, there’s a tattoo on his lower back.

## Property of Scott McCall

Stiles groans and knocks his head into the wall, trying to distract himself from how much of a fucking _idiot_  his drunken self is. It’s not a bad tattoo, not at all. The lines are smooth, skilled, stylized so that despite how utterly _terrible_  the words are, it _looks good_. 

“What the _fuck_  is that?” Scott asks, blinking at him from the bathroom door. Stiles groans, wishing that there was a hell mouth right under their dorm bathroom, so that it would just swallow him whole. 

Scott manhandles Stiles so that his back is towards him, hands skating down Stiles’ back, stopping before the skin gets hot around the swollen tattoo. Stiles feels some of the soreness dissipate as Scott leeches away his pain. 

When Stiles turns, there’s something like adoration and _flattery_  on Scott’s face. 

“Stiles,” Scott says, voice sounding wrecked. Stiles chokes on his spit. “You got a tattoo –”

The _for me_  goes unsaid, but Stiles can read it all over Scott’s face, in his sparkling eyes.

“Only you would come to the conclusion that this terrible drunken decision was the ultimate romantic gesture,” Stiles says, sighing as Scott grins at him, all pink-cheek and blown away by Stiles’ petulant declaration of pack belonging. 

“You love me so much,” Scott says. Sings really, before he pulls Stiles in for a kiss. “Oh my god, you were so pissed that they said you weren’t pack –”

“Don’t remind me,” Stiles mutters, because it’s literally permanent in his skin now.

“A fucking ‘property of’ tattoo,” Scott says, unrestrained glee in his voice.

“Scott,” Stiles says, and that’s definitely a whine. Scott cackles and kisses him harder.

“I can’t wait until that heals –”

“Scott –”

“I’m going to jizz all over it.”

“ _Scott_!”

“You’re pack Stiles!” Scott yelps in his face, and grabs him around the legs so he can dump him on the counter and kiss him harder, pressing into him. 

They definitely have sex right there in the bathroom, which Stiles counts as a win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/129501518682/pls-tell-me-your-opinion-on-college-age-stiles)


	5. Sciles: Good Morning (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick cheer up for Monica. 
> 
> nsfw, underage, first time.

They’ve always slept in the same bed, habit from when they were younger. They would fall asleep watching movies together, slumping into each other, waking briefly to rearrange and fall back to sleep. It was common to wake up with limbs tangled together, Stiles’ drool on Scott’s shoulder. They fit together neatly, chest-to-back or sprawled out, elbows in each other’s ribs. They were equally graceless sleepers, but they didn’t suffer for it. If one tossed and turned, the other drew them close, arms over chests, limbs locked tightly around each other until they both drifted.

Of course, along the way, it changes. Scott becomes all too aware of his body, the ways that they fit together. All of his nerves prickle with awareness when their skin brushes. He wakes up aching, wanting to rut into the soft heat of Stiles’ body, and it’s embarrassing, confusing. At first, Scott tries to avoid sleeping in the same bed, waiting until Stiles falls asleep to extract himself, come up with excuses as to why he’s on the chair or the floor. It only takes two consecutive nights for Stiles to call him out on it, point out how it doesn’t make sense. 

Scott would rather feel embarrassed for himself than any awkwardness between them, so he falls into bed with Stiles again. Any effort to keep space between them is fruitless. It’s been years together, and Stiles is a cuddler, far too accustomed to drawing Scott into him. 

When Stiles is asleep, Scott lets himself revel in the feel of Stiles, sleep-soft against him. Scott lets himself look, whatever sparse light is in the room, picking out the details of Stiles’ face. His moles are stark on his pale skin, mouth slack as he breathes. Every so often, his hand twitches, he snuffles when he moves. 

Scott squeezes his eyes shut, tries not to think about it.

It’s particularly… difficult when Scott wakes up, and Stiles is sealed to his back, arm slung around his waist. Scott is hard, horny, and Stiles’ hand is entirely too close to his dick for comfort. If he rolls over, his boner will be noticeable. If he stands up, his boner will be noticeable. Really, it’s a lose-lose, and Scott definitely isn’t thinking about Stiles’ own boner pressed against his lower back. Definitely not.

 _Penises become erect during REM sleep_ , Scott reminds himself, trying to count to ten. Stiles’ hand twitches against Scott’s stomach, and Scott’s so surprised, he jerks forward a little bit.  _Penises become erect during REM sleep, and it doesn’t mean anything - oh god_  -

“What are you doing?” Scott hisses, quietly. Apparently, Stiles is awake. His hand is splayed over Scott’s stomach, fingers spread wide like he’s trying to touch all the skin between Scott’s hips. 

The touching is not helping his boner. 

“You’re moving,” Stiles mumbles. His lips drag slow across Scott’s neck, and Scott can’t help the way he tenses and groans. The back of his neck is _incredibly_  sensitive. Stiles makes a noise low in his throat, hand curling up in a fist against Scott’s stomach, and his lips move against Scott’s neck _again_ , “yeah?”

“Yeah?” Scott parrots, not sure what Stiles means, too distracted by the feeling of Stiles’ hips nudging forward. His dick is against Scott’s back. Scott can feel his heart pounding in his chest, reverberating through his entire muscular structure. 

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, and oh god - those are definitely his teeth scraping the back of Scott’s neck, making Scott’s dick _throb_. Scott can’t help the whine that bursts out of his throat, the way he bucks forward and then back into Stiles. Stiles’ hand splays on Scott’s skin, grabs him like he can’t help it. 

“Fuck,” Stiles groans. “Can I touch you?”

“What?” Scott demands. “You want to -”

“Fuck yeah, Scott, c’mon,” Stiles presses his dick harder against Scott’s back, hand trailing low over Scott’s stomach, over his hipbones and his happy trail. “I want to jerk you off.”

“You want to touch my dick?” Scott asks, breathing hard. Stiles’ hand tightens on his hip again, hard and desperate. 

“Yeah, fuck, please.”

As nice as it is to hear Stiles beg, he’s way more interested in getting his dick touched, so he just mutters affirmations over and over while he strips out of his underwear, kicking it away from him. 

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, maybe for Stiles keep them on their sides and jerk Scott off. No eye contact, slightly shameful. Maybe he expects that they’ll get off, and then pretend like nothing happened. 

What he doesn’t expect is for Stiles to exhale like he’s relieved, and push on Scott’s shoulder until he’s flat on his back, blinking up at Stiles. He doesn’t expect Stiles to lean down and drag his nose over Scott’s cheek, press a kiss it as he grips Scott’s dick. Scott hisses and humps up, trying to get friction, but Stiles is just touching him softly, watching him. 

“Can I kiss you?” Stiles asks, and all Scott can do is nod, throat dry. This has to be some sort of fever dream. It feels like it, cocooned in the early morning light, the gentle silence. Everything is sleep hazy, not-quite-real as Stiles leans down as presses their lips together. He licks against Scott’s lips, but doesn’t deepen the kiss. 

Instead, he trails his lips down to Scott’s jaw, kissing and licking and biting. He sucks on Scott’s neck, slides his tongue over Scott’s sensitive skin, making Scott arch and whine. His teeth drag over Scott’s collar, going back up to bite at his ear. It’s making Scott’s nerves fizzle, skin heating up, overstimulated. 

“Lube?” Stiles asks, mouth on Scott’s ear. 

“Drawer,” Scott says, flinging his hand out. It ricochets off the nightstand, but Scott barely notices, grabbing out the lube and chucking it at Stiles. Stiles laughs at him and nuzzles into his neck before sitting up to pour it in his hand. 

From there it’s a dizzying mess of feeling as Stiles grips him tight and slides his hand along Scott’s shaft, thumb swirling up the head. Stiles’ mouth ghosts over his neck and jaw and down his chest, one hand on Scott’s dick, the other holding himself up. His cock is a hard line against Scott’s thigh, humping into it every so often. 

Every sensations feels amplified, the sound of their panting is loud in the silence around them. Scott’s groans burst like a shotgun from his chest, even though he knows that he’s not being loud, it feels loud. Everything is so overwhelming, and Scott is just along for the ride, breath hitching in his chest as Stiles brings him closer and closer to orgasm. 

“Are you going to come for me?” Stiles asks, in a low voice, and that is - unexpectedly hot, Scott thinks, nodding frantically, watching the way Stlies’ teeth sink into his bottom lip, eyebrows going determined. His wrist speeds up, and Scott comes all over stomach with a punched-out noise, hips thrusting hard. 

Stiles drags off his underwear and uses them to wipe Scott off before he pulls Scott in and kisses him. Scott gets a hand on Stiles’ dick before remembering the lube. When his palm is slick, he runs it over Stiles’ length, revels in the hot-silky feeling of it. Stiles is panting into his mouth, moaning, and god, Scott could listen to him forever, could stare at him always.

Stiles’ cheeks and neck and chest are pink, mouth bitten at. His eyes keep flickering up to meet Scott’s before they both look down at Stiles’ dick sliding in Scott’s hand. It doesn’t take too long before he’s coming, spilling over Scott’s fist with a grunt, mouth open like he’s surprised.

They sit there, staring at each other with wide eyes, before Stiles blurts, “well, _that_  just happened.”

Scott can’t help it, he bursts out laughing, giddy on mutual orgasms, being close enough to Stiles to feel his warmth. 

“Fuck yeah, it did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/133451801192/seriousshit88-this-was-supposed-to-be-cheer-up)


	6. Sciles: Touch Starved Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post S5 Sciles, touch starved Scott

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kuri ruined my life with [a touch starved headcanon](http://authorkurikuri.tumblr.com/post/137293227675/i-really-really-want-a-fic-about). this is the retaliation.

I’m going to counter Kuri’s [touch starved!Scott](http://authorkurikuri.tumblr.com/post/137293227675/i-really-really-want-a-fic-about) here, because Kuri’s is _before_  the bite, but what about now? What about this whole season where we haven’t really seen Scott be tactile, not the way that he usually is. Usually he exchanges easy touches with people, especially Stiles, but now, _now_. There’s this gaping chasm between him and everyone else, this lack of trust. There’s a gory wound in his chest, and as much as he wants touch - _needs touch_ , it’s nearly painful to even think about. 

Considering all the violence against Scott and his body, it’s a wonder it took this long to get to this point; where he knows without a doubt that if anyone tried to touch him, he would shy away. Maybe it’s his body’s way of tapping out, saying it’s tired of being beaten and broken, that it needs a break.

It’s not obvious at first, because he and Stiles haven’t really gotten back to _normal_. There’s no pack there to test the boundaries. The first time Stiles tries to touch him, just a pat on his shoulder, Scott recoils from him unexpectedly. At first Stiles thinks it’s like that night in the rain, when Scott flinched, that Scott doesn’t trust him _still_ \- doesn’t trust Stiles to touch him. But it’s not.

“It’s not you,” Scott says, unable to really explain it. He doesn’t know why the idea of being touched sets him on edge, because he wants it more than anything, but it _hurts_ ; he can feel every point of contact like pins against his skin. It doesn’t help him, he can’t deal with it. 

So, Stiles just… doesn’t touch him. It’s difficult. As they sink back into their old routines, it’s obvious Stiles wants to reach out. Sometimes he forgets, and Scott has to deal with the wounded look on his face when Scott flinches; the profuse apologies for the slightest bump of shoulders or press of hands. 

They’ve never had these boundaries. It makes Scott ache, because he _wants_ , he wants so badly, but he can’t. He can’t articulate the ways in which he _can’t_ , but his body has set up all these barriers and he can’t break them down even though he wants to.

God, he wants to. He wants to pull Stiles in and hold him close, feel Stiles’ skin under his hands. He wants to get reacquainted with Stiles’ heartbeat. He just… can’t. The idea makes him a little queasy, and he hates it. It makes him irritated, but being touched makes him irritated and he just has no idea what to do. 

The pressure just builds and builds and builds, until Scott can’t stand it. He has no idea how to stop the conflicting desires inside of him, but he knows that his head is so loud and he just wants a fucking hug. 

He climbs through Stiles’ window at 2AM and says, “touch me.”

Stiles is, thankfully, still awake, blinking at him in confusion. His eyes sweep all over Scott, eyebrow arching. 

“Not like that,” Scott blurts out, because that’s a whole other animal. He can’t even think about sex when he can’t stand to be _held_. “I just need you to touch me, something. I need to be touched. I _need_ it.”

“Scott, you hate it,” Stiles says, voice low and painful like it always is when he apologizes for touching Scott. He’s right, Scott knows he’s right. It’s gotten to the point where Scott even shies away from his mom. 

“Avoiding it is exacerbating the issue,” he says. Word of the day. “I just need to get it out of the way. I need to get over it.” Break the walls down, wreck the boundaries that his body implemented without his consent. 

“You can’t just do it all in one go,” Stiles says, reasonably. “You need exposure.”

“So?”

“So, we need to take it slow,” Stiles says, frowning and looking thoughtful. “Talk it out.”

They both look at each other and chuckle awkwardly. They’re working on communication, trying to at least. It’s the least they can do, after everything. 

“I’ll tell you before I touch you, every time,” Stiles says. “Like, right now, I’m going to touch your shoulder.” 

Stiles stands awkwardly in front of Scott and reaches his hand out, placing it on Scott’s shoulder. He’s barely touching Scott, but it’s like there’s a live wire through him, reminding him of being electrocuted. He doesn’t flinch, but he’s barely breathing, panic welling in his chest. 

“Okay,” Scott says, breath fast. “Okay, that’s good.” Stiles nods once, squeezes, and lets go. The squeeze wasn’t really in the agreement, but Scott lets it go, gasps to suck in air. It’s fucking ridiculous that it’s this hard to handle a simple shoulder touch, but it is, it really is. 

“That was good,” Stiles says, heart beating fast. Anxiety clings to the air around them, but it’s a start, Scott knows it is. 

That’s how it continues. Stiles tells Scott every time he’s going to reach for him. “I’m going to touch your shoulder,” or “I’m going to brush against your back,” or “I’m going to tap your knee.”

It takes awhile, but Scott relaxes into it. It doesn’t feel like a bullet anymore, just feels like a touch, like it did before. 

“More,” Scott says. “Longer, I dunno.” So Stiles does. He still tells Scott when he’s going to do it, “I’m going to grab your arm for a couple of seconds,” or “I’m going to leave my arm on your shoulder for a little while.” 

It’s a little weird, deliberate, awkward. Thinking out actions makes it forced. They mostly do it when they’re alone, just to avoid questions. Scott doesn’t need people asking why Stiles is telling him he’s going to try holding his hand. 

When it evolves to that, they’re watching a movie. It’s not a statement, it’s a question, “can I try holding your hand?” Scott thinks about feeling Stiles’ pulse again and consents. The initial contact makes Scott tense, but he feels the shift of Stiles’ warm skin, the way he’s loosely holding onto Scott and relaxes after a few minutes. He doesn’t concentrate on the movie, not really. Their fingers are laced, palms resting against each other. Scott’s heart has synced up with Stiles’ automatically. It’s so nice, Scott wants to sob. 

Stiles starts touching more deliberately. He asks Scott if he can play with Scott’s hair, and Scott agrees, sitting just below Stiles so Stiles can run his long fingers through his hair gently. The touches are quick, but it’s so soothing Scott drifts off propped up against Stiles’ bed. Another thing he hasn’t really done since… everything. Sleeping in the same room with someone else is entirely too vulnerable. 

He asks Scott if he can hold his hand and touch his arm at the same time. When Scott says yes, they sit side by side and Stiles drags the tips of his fingers over Scott’s skin idly. Just touching to touch. It makes the ache in Scott’s chest lessen a little.

They get to the point where Stiles can stop telling Scott when he’s going to touch him. They just sort of look at each other and know and Stiles will initiate contact. It’s easier than it’s ever been, and Scott’s thankful for it. He needed it more than he’s willing to admit to anyone. 

Hugs take a long time. It’s just… a lot of touching. A lot of contact, and for awhile, Scott gets panicky when he thinks about it. But they get to a point where Scott thinks it’s okay. 

It ends up being a production. A ridiculous production where they stand facing each other and take a lot of deep, bracing breaths before they hug. It’s really tense at first, but after a couple of seconds, Scott melts into it, going boneless against Stiles. 

“Whoa buddy,” Stiles says, holding Scott up. They part after a minute. Scott’s thankful that Stiles doesn’t comment on the fact that Scott’s eyes are a little wet, but that was the best thing Scott has felt in a long time. 

The hugging becomes more frequent, the touches more casual. It doesn’t feel like pins and needles anymore, doesn’t make him want to run away. Things are getting better. 

Especially when Stiles makes Scott laugh and Scott grabs his arm, clinging to it while he giggles. When he’s done, Stiles just looks at him with a smile, “you touched me.”

“We do that now,” Scott says, suddenly aware of the way he’s hanging off Stiles’ arm. 

“No, _you_ touched _me_. On purpose.” 

The first time Scott’s been the one to initiate contact since they started this whole… exposure therapy. He didn’t even realize. After he becomes aware of it, he tries to do it more. He mimics Stiles, a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, brushing up against his back. Stiles gives him the same, soft look every time. 

It gets to the point where it feels okay, where everything feels _fine_. Where they can curl up together and Scott can just _be touched_. Scott spends a decent amount of time under the crook of Stiles’ arm, pressed against his side. 

“Can I – can I try something?” Stiles asks one day, smelling like anxiety and biting his lip nervously. Scott agrees, because there’s no reason to say no.

“Okay, I’m gunna take off your shirt,” Stiles says, doing just that, dragging Scott’s shirt off of him. Scott sits with a rabbit quick heartbeat, waiting. He thinks he knows where this is going, but he doesn’t really want to think about it until Stiles says, 

“I’m gunna touch – can I touch your chest – your stomach?” 

Scott gets dizzy thinking about it. He reels back, and Stiles panics, eyes going wide. He’s apologizing when Scott tells him to do it. Stiles hesitates, hand hovering over Scott’s skin and Scott’s trembling, just a little, they can both see it. But, Scott is a True Alpha, and he’s tired of the bullshit. 

He grabs Stiles’ wrist and yanks him forward and Stiles’ finger tips rest against the bottom of his sternum, right where Theo gored him. Where it took days to heal, ragged edges reminding him of his death every time he looked in a mirror. 

They’re both not breathing, not really, but Scott doesn’t have a violent urge to rip himself away, he doesn’t want to recoil. He’s still shaking, but Stiles’ fingers start to move; they trace the area, up his chest and down to his stomach. He spreads his hand wide over the middle of Scott’s torso, palm warm and weighted and nothing at all like Theo’s heavy claws. 

There are tears on Scott’s face, he barely notices until Stiles’ hand is brushing them away, lingering on his cheek. Scott’s shaking underneath his hand, and he can feel all of his barriers breaking down, crumbling away under Stiles’ touch. It hasn’t been easy, but this, this is the breaking point. 

Stiles’ hand curls around his neck and brings their foreheads together. They breath each other in, Stiles’ fingers over Scott’s pounding heart. 

(The first time they kiss is weeks later. Stiles leans into Scott and says, “I’m going to touch your lips now. With my mouth. I’m going to kiss you.” Scott can’t say no to that.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/137332879767/im-going-to-counter-kuris-touch)


	7. Sciles: Duende

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duende: Unusual power to attract or charm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt fill for zeeyum

“Please tell me again why everyone is suddenly thirsty for True Alpha dick?” Stiles asks, yanking Scott out of the hallway by the straps of his backpack. Scott falls into him with a grunt, almost knocking them both over. Stiles barely falters, wrapping his arm around Scott as he slams the door shut. He only releases Scott to push him down by the top of his head, forcing him to sit. Scott slumps against the door, right under the window. Anyone looking in would not be able to see him. 

Fairies are assholes.

“I got charmed,” Scott says, knocking his against the door. Not hard enough to splinter anything, but hard enough to wake him up a little. It’s been an intense morning. “Charmed to be charming.”

“What does that mean?” Stiles asks, crouching in front of him, scowling. “Charmed to be charming? You’re already charming. Literally everyone loves you.”

“Now they _literally_  do,” Scott says, thumb jabbing backwards. 

Yesterday, there were fairies and some gibberish about a spell that he didn’t quite catch. There weren’t any immediate changes, so he brushed it off. Went home, went to sleep, woke up. Still, no visible difference. 

It started with Malia. Malia isn’t ever shy about her attraction, but she’s been pretty fixated on the idea of wooing Kira. Which means he definitely was not prepared for her grabbing him and making out with him before the first bell this morning. When they untangled, he kind of ran away instead of asking _why_  she was suddenly kissing him. Then he ran into Lydia. It took all of two whole seconds for her to start looking at him like she wanted to devour him. He drew the line when Mason stumbled up to him blushing, asking him on a date. 

Scott doesn’t think he’s unattractive, but he’s never detected this level of _desire_ from his entire pack before. It had to have been the fairies. 

“People are trying to make out with me,” he laments. “Lydia’s found me three times today. She keeps touching my arm. I am terrified of running into Liam.”

“That’s rough buddy,” Stiles says, clasping Scott on the shoulder. “Fairies are the worst, but if it’s a simple lusting spell, we can fix that.”

“How do you know?” Scott demands, running his hands through his hair. Today has been stressful. He’s stressed. 

“Hey! I read,” Stiles says, looking affronted. Looking exactly like he always does. The same dopey smile, the same warm brown eyes. Scott blinks at him slowly. Stiles’ eyes go wide before he looks away quickly.

“Stiles.”

“Yeah, dude?” 

“Why aren’t you affected by the charming charm?” Scott’s heart is jumping in his throat. Stiles’ heart is starting to beat faster, too. Scott hears him swallow. The air around them feels hot, heavy with tension. 

“Who says I’m not,” Stiles deflects, sitting back on his heels. They’re still staring at each other, waiting each other out. “Maybe I just have self control.”

“Doubtful,” Scott says, snorting. That makes Stiles mouth wobble upwards, like he’s trying not to laugh. 

“Maybe it only effects supernatural creatures,” he says. His heart is still thudding, but that sounds like a reasonable explanation. The only people after him have been _pack_. But –

“Mason,” Scott says, slowly, dragging his eyes over Stiles’ face. There’s a pink tint to his cheeks, all blotchy and ruddy the way it always gets when he’s embarrassed. Scott gulps around the knot in his throat. 

“Maybe the fairies purposefully excluded me,” Stiles says. “Maybe they knew I would figure them out, you know? They didn’t want to _curse you_ , just wanted to have fun. They would have to leave the person who could solve the mystery unaffected.”

“Then why not Deaton? Lydia?” Scott says. His chest is sizzling with excitement, everything feels really intense, every word feels weighted. 

“I doubt Deaton wants to jump your bones, bro,” Stiles says. Deflecting. 

“ _Stiles –_ ”

“Dude, don’t,” Stiles warns, face going serious, eyes going low. The shift startles Scott. 

“Don’t what?” Scott asks. It’s his turn to play dumb, maybe. 

“Stop asking me about this,” Stiles says. “I just told you I read about this. Which means you know that I know why the charm isn’t working. You also know that I’m not going to say anything until you’re uncharmed, so that you know I’m not under the influence of the charm. You know?”

“So after the charm is lifted, then you’ll admit you want to bone me?” Scott asks. He probably shouldn’t have gone there, but it’s been hanging in the air between them. He wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to one-up Stiles like that. 

Stiles’ mouth drops open. His face goes bright red, all over. 

“Shut up,” he mutters, teeth biting into his bottom lip. “ _Maybe_ I’ll admit it, if you get that smug ass look off your face.”

Scott laughs out loud, “I can’t wait to kiss you.” After the charm is lifted. Stiles finally grins, shoulders going loose as the tension dissipates. 

“You’re fucking up my confession,” he complains, but it doesn’t sound like he  means it.

“I’m keeping my mouth shut,” Scott says, miming zipping his lips up. “Let’s get me uncharmed so you can tell me that thing you know I already know.”

Fairies are assholes, but it was definitely worth it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/139585456472/duende-scott)


	8. Sciles: Friday Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Capernoited: slightly intoxicated or tipsy.   
> Gymnophoria: the sensation that someone is mentally undressing you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt fill for Dev. 
> 
> nsfw, recreational drug use

Friday nights are Scott’s favorites. They usually don’t bother doing anything on Friday’s, busy crashing from the school week. The only thing they need is a few grams of MJ and the shitty couch in the Stilinski’s basement. 

It’s pretty much ritual by now. The Sheriff works doubles on Friday night, so they stock up on snacks and drinks and drag Stiles’ bong out. They put in whatever movie’s closest or whatever new album they need to listen to and just chill. Just the two of them, spacing out and smoking, limbs stacked on top of each other. 

Sometimes, Scott gets bold. Sometimes, he presses himself to Stiles’ side and insists they share a hit. There aren’t any good excuses for wanting to shotgun, but Stiles never questions him. All he does is make room so Scott can climb on his lap, big hands gripping Scott’s hips as Scott holds the bong between them. Stiles pulls the bowl for him as he inhales, huge hit held in his lungs until Stiles surges upwards and drinks the smoke from his mouth. 

The worst part about is when they start kissing. They only ever kiss on Friday nights, emboldened by the pot and being all alone together. Stiles takes the bong from Scott and puts it on the ground. He yanks Scott in by his hips and kisses him in that unforgiving way that makes Scott absolutely dizzy. 

There’s something about Fridays that makes Scott feel wild, like he can do anything. They don’t ever go further than kissing or grinding together, rocking their hips in time until one of them pulls away. For another hit, for a snack, to change the movie. There’s always an excuse for them to stop kissing.

This time, it’s the song. 

“This is a terrible song to smoke to,” Scott says, hopping off Stiles’ lap to get to the iPod. It was a terrible song to make out to, but Scott doesn’t say that. He’s having a hard time controlling himself. He knows if he sits back on Stiles’ lap, he’s going to do something _more_  than making out, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready for it. 

(He is.)

The song that comes on doesn’t make the urge disappear, either. The opening chord has him rolling his hips on instinct, bass line just hard enough to make him want to pop his shoulders and shake his ass. He can’t help it. 9 years of dance is deeply ingrained in him. Anything with a good beat makes him move. 

When he turns, Stiles is watching him intently, eyes hooded, laser focused. Scott smirks at him, stepping closer, hips still circling. This song makes him want to fuck anyway, a perfect slow grind song.

Scott picks up the bong again and twirls, sitting on Stiles’ lap again, but facing away from him. He works his hips as he lights up, circling tightly, keeping most of his weight on his thighs. It’s hard as hell to keep himself up, but he likes how nonchalant he feels, cashing the bowl while Stiles groans under him. 

He blows the smoke out and puts the bong back down, spinning and stripping out of his shirt in a fluid motion. He drops it… somewhere. Who knows where. He’s too focused on the way Stiles licks his lips, the slow flick of his tongue. 

Scott feels ridiculous as he dances for Stiles. _For_  Stiles. It probably shouldn’t feel so intense, it should be silly, they should be laughing, but Stiles is just _watching_  him, dick obviously interested. Stiles isn’t even trying to hide it. He wipes his hands on his shorts and material bunches up, outlining his hard-on even more. 

Fuck. 

Scott turns again, because he can’t watch Stiles as he strips out of his shorts. He circles his hips in a way that he hopes is sexy, back arches as he pulls them down, thankful that he’s wearing black briefs. 

“Holy shit,” Stiles says, low and breathless as Scott turns around again. He probably didn’t mean for Scott to hear. The appreciation makes Scott heat up. He knows his face is red as hell and Stiles can definitely see how hard he is. 

He straddles Stiles’ lap, fingers combing through the hair at Stiles’ nape as he rocks down. They’re both really fucking hard. Scott has no idea who kisses who, but their lips crash together rough, like neither of them can help it. Stiles gasps into his mouth, clenching at his back. Scott abandons any thoughts of finesse as Stiles thrusts up against him. 

“Holy shit,” Stiles repeats. Whiny, needy. Scott groans in agreements. 

“Fuck, you look so hot,” Stiles says, as Scott presses kisses to his jaw, dragging his teeth over the skin there, dipping down to kiss his neck. “I love when you dance, you look like you should be riding a cock when you move your hips.”

“Stiles,” Scott breathes, grinding down harder. 

“Shit, sorry, that’s probably bad,” Stiles says, throwing his head back as Scott climbs off his lap. He doesn’t go far, just tugs Stiles’ shorts and briefs off so that he can kneel between Stiles’ legs. 

If they’re going there, Scott might as well _go there_. 

Stiles’ eyes are wide and huge as his head snaps back up. Scott swallows him down, watching his face. Stiles is beautiful when he’s getting blown; mouth slack, eyes fluttering. The blush on his face spreads over his neck and down his chest, matching the pink of his dick. 

“Oh god, you’re going to kill me,” Stiles groans, threading his hands through Scott’s hair, hips nudging up the tiniest amount so Scott slips more of Stiles’ cock into his mouth. “Fuck your mouth. I’m obsessed with your lips. They’re perfect for sucking dick. You look so good.”

Spit drips onto Scott’s fist as he gets everything sloppy wet, hand working in time with his mouth. It really doesn’t take long for Stiles to start breathing harder, hand tightening in Scott’s hair. When he comes, Scott swallows it all down. He pulls off, licking at his bruised mouth, lips buzzing. 

“Oh my fucking god,” Stiles says, tugging Scott up. He ignores the fact that Scott had a mouth full of his jizz and kisses the shit out him, sticking his hand down the front of Scott’s briefs. Scott shoves them down his legs, getting naked so he can straddle Stiles’ lap, and lets Stiles jerk him dry, too caught up in the sensation of Stiles’ hand on his dick to care. 

“Oh fuck, this is better than I thought it would be,” Stiles says, still talking. Always talking. All Scott can do is moan in agreement, scrambling for brain cells as Stiles licks his fucking collarbones. “You’re so fucking sexy all the time. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to touch you.”

Stiles’ free hand runs down his side, squeezes his hip and thigh before cupping his ass. He runs his fingers over Scott’s skin, making Scott’s whole body tingle. The tips of his fingers slide down, teasing at him where his legs are spread obscenely.  

“I want to fuck you,” Stiles says, voice going lower, rougher. “I want feel you, I want to be inside you.”

“Yeah, shit,” Scott agrees. He’s just nodding and moaning, trying to rock into Stiles’ fist and back against the touch of his fingers at the same time. “I wish we had lube, I want your fingers in me.”

“Fuck, Scotty,” Stiles whines, planting his head against Scott’s chest like he can’t possibly hold himself up. Scott’s getting close, tight feeling at the bottom of his stomach, thighs shaking. 

Scott feels the prod of Stiles’ fingers at Scott’s rim, still just a tease. Neither of them are getting anywhere without lube. He stills wants it, wants Stiles over him and around him and inside of him, filling him up. He comes with a shout, dick jerking and spitting all over Stiles’ fist, come landing on his shirt. 

Stiles wraps his arms around Scott’s waist and pulls him in for a hard kiss. Scott whines and licks into Stiles’ mouth, still overstimulated and wound up tight, wishing he was hard again so he could grind off against Stiles’ front and come all over him. Again.

They’re both shaking, grinning, giggling. 

“Fuck, I love Fridays,” Stiles says, pressing their foreheads together. 

“Best day of the week,” Scott agrees. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/139589274452/omg-i-love-this-for-the-drabble-ask-gymnophoria)


	9. Sciles: Scott's A Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott comes out as trans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Taylor

Scott had always known. Well, he suspected. Even before he decided to switch pronouns. Before the haircuts and the binding. There was always stealing Stiles’ clothes, and insisting on being the prince when they played games. There was always being miserable in his too-pink room until he asked his mom to paint over it. She was accommodating, even if she did call it his ‘tomboy’ phase. 

He didn’t really know why he felt so different. For the longest time, he just thought it was because he was weird and small. Like maybe the feeling of his skin being on wrong was just _that_. Weirdness. 

Weirdness through being accused of being Stiles’ ‘girlfriend’, weirdness through being told he couldn’t play kickball because he wasn’t a _boy_ , weirdness through taking kitchen sheers to his own hair when it grew out too long, curling behind his ears. Weirdness through his first kiss with Stiles, chapped lips, and Stiles saying, “you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever met, I mean it.” 

Scott did know that Stiles meant it, but he didn’t know why his stomach curdled when Stiles said _prettiest girl_. He didn’t want Stiles to think of him as a girl, he wanted to be the same as Stiles, just like Stiles.

They lost their virginity to each other summer of sophomore year, fumbling through the motions in the back of Stiles’ Jeep, knees shoved in weird angles, necks and shoulders hunched. Kissing and grabbing and touching. 

God, he loved touching Stiles. The soft plane of his abs, the hot skin of his chest. Scott liked the way Stiles arched under him when he played with Stiles’ nipples; the way he groaned when Scott ground down on his lap. He liked the way Stiles gripped his back like he didn’t want to let Scott go.  

The weirdness was back when they actually fucked though, when Stiles settled over him and thrust into him. When he kept calling Scott beautiful and playing with his chest. It was _Stiles_ , so Scott loved it, the whole two minutes. He just… knew it didn’t feel exactly right, still couldn’t explain why.

Then the revelation happens, Scott finds his word and his identity and everything slots into place and… He can’t bring himself to say anything, because Stiles isn’t _gay_. Stiles loves Scott because he thinks Scott is a girl. He wants to touch Scott because he thinks Scott is a girl. 

Scott doesn’t know if he could handle Stiles not loving him, or wanting to touch him. 

It gets harder, though. Because he has a word and an identity that’s always on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t keep things from people, not Stiles, not his mom. But, if he tells his mom, he’ll have to tell Stiles. If he tells Stiles, they’ll have to confront the whole situation. 

One day, the dam breaks. It’s just a normal day, but there’s too much talk about his relationship with Stiles, and Lydia makes a comment about him not shaving his legs in the locker room, and Stiles says, “there’s my girl!” loudly in the hallway and Scott can’t do it anymore, he can’t hold it in. 

When they get back to Stiles’, Scott drops the dreaded, ‘we need to talk’ bomb. Stiles goes completely white, color draining from his face as he sits down.

“About what?” he asks, staring at Scott with wide eyes, obviously freaked out. “Are we good? I thought we were good?”

“We’re good,” Scott says, trying to be reassuring, but his voice is obviously shaking. He wipes his palms on his jeans. “I have something to tell you.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, giving Scott a wobbly smile. “Is it that you’re gay? I can deal with that, you know, nothing hotter than two chicks together.”

“Don’t be gross,” Scott says, knot in his chest getting tighter. Stiles’ face sobers up. “It’s actually kind of that.”

“What?” Stiles asks, mouth dropping. That tight feeling starts behind Scott’s eyes, but he refuses to cry. 

“I mean, I might be bi, but our relationship is gay,” he says. He practiced in the mirror this morning, this is not what he told himself he would be saying. It’s really outside the realm of practiced speeches. “I mean, because that kind of thing depends on whether or not two men are in a relationship, right?”

“Which we’re not,” Stiles says, slowly, frowning. Scott blinks to clear his head, and his eyes. 

“We are,” he says firmly, ignoring the way his nerves are trying to push out of his throat. “You’re a dude, I’m a dude. We’re totally gay.”

“You’re not a dude,” Stiles says, with that same lost look on his face. Scott knows he’s not making any sense; that he’s just wishing Stiles would _get it_ without Scott having to elaborate. That’s not going to happen. 

“I am,” Scott says, still keeping his voice steady. “I’m trans.” Stiles’ mouth drops open. There’s some relief in _that_ , at least Scott doesn’t have to tell Stiles what that means. Distantly, he wonders how Stiles gets it, because Scott didn’t know, but he’ll ask that question later.

Everything is silent for at least a full minute. They’re just staring at each other. The tension in the room feels like the air before a storm, full of pressure and static. Every time Stiles blinks, it’s slow motion. All Scott can do is focus on the way Stiles’ chest moves when he breathes. 

“So do you –” Stiles licks his lips, frowns. Scott can hear the dragging sound as he wipes his palms on his jeans before clasping them in front of him. His knees knock as his leg sways. “How?”

Scott stares at him for a little longer.

“Not _how_ ,” Stiles says, with a sigh. “How did you figure it out?”

So Scott tells him about the unit on human development in his psych class, and how they briefly touched on whether things like homosexuality and being transgender were nature or nurture. Once Scott looked into it, he just felt that it was right. Some of that _weirdness_  went away, and he can’t ignore that. He can’t ignore how good it feels to refer to himself as _he_ , and _Scott_. An identity that fits just a little better than anything else, anything from before. 

“Okay,” Stiles says, once Scott’s done. He’s still frowning, mouth turned down, but he’s nodding.

“Okay?” Scott asks, breath catching in his lungs a little bit. “Okay, okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “I can’t promise I won’t fuck up, but I’m with you, babe – buddy. Dude?”

“You call me dude anyway,” Scott says, chest loosening up when Stiles gives him a tentative smile. The feeling doesn’t last long. The knot in his throat comes back almost instantly. “I understand if you don’t want to keep dating me. It’s not really what you signed up for.”

“What? Seriously?” Stiles asks, voice going high. He jumps to his feet, grabbing Scott’s upper arms gently. Scott’s trying not to hold his breath, but he is. Waiting. “Dude, that’s – it’s not about _that_  – it’s about _you_. You as a person. As my best friend, my – I mean, I firmly believe everyone is at least a little bit gay. If you’re a dude, I’m hella gay.”

“Okay,” Scott says, breathing deep. He can’t really smile, still too full of nerves, but it’ll be okay. Stiles said it’ll be okay. He swallows three times before he talks again. “Can you call me Scott? And use male pronouns? When we’re not at school?”

“Scott?” Stiles asks, surprised. He works his mouth, like he’s feeling the weigh of Scott’s name. It’s not something Scott is super used to yet, he’s still getting used to referring to himself with the right name and pronouns, so he gets that might be weird. The name is a little _plain_. 

“I don’t know, it feels like it fits,” Scott says, a little self conscious. 

“It does,” Stiles says, quick, thumbs rubbing soothingly over the skin of Scott’s arms. He smiles wide and cups Scott’s face with both of his hands, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips over and over and over. 

“You’re a very handsome boy,” he says, in between kisses. That’s when Scott starts crying, unable to hold it back. All the tension leaves his body as Stiles kisses him all over his face. His eyes, cheeks, nose, jaw. “You’re my boy.”

“I’m your boy,” Scott repeats. He’s Stiles’ boy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/139023149257/trashkink-scott-had-always-known-well-he)


	10. Sciles: When You're Low

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somedays, Scott doesn’t get out of bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Dev

Somedays, Scott doesn’t get out of bed. Stiles doesn’t hold it against him, but there are only so many mental health days one can take before they flunk out of their very expensive veterinary science classes, and Scott is no exception.

Stiles tries. It’s not like he doesn’t have his own slew of issues, but he likes to think they take care of each other in that way. Sometimes it’s difficult, when neither one of them want to get out of bed, or they’re having a handful of rough days because there was an unexpected trigger. Today, though, Scott needs to be at his 11:30 class. It’s only 10, but Scott takes some prodding.

“Hey, babe,” Stiles says, rolling over and wrapping his arms and legs around Scott. “Time to get up, babe.” He only overuses pet names to annoy Scott. It’s weirdly effective.

Scott groans and bats at Stiles over his shoulder. His flapping hand hits Stiles in the face. Stiles squeezes Scott tighter with his limbs. This tactic is called Operation Octopus.

“Babe, I have a blunt rolled and I will smoke you out before class,” Stiles says. Totally worth waking up for. 

“Blunt?” Scott asks, voice adorably fuzzy with sleep. Stiles nuzzles the back of Scott’s neck, nipping at the skin. 

“A strawberry blunt with sour kush,” he sing songs, in Scott’s ear. “You have to shower first though, you’re rank.” It’s probably been three days since Scott showered. _Stiles_ doesn’t mind, but Scott’s classmates definitely will. Scott groans again, and snuggles back into the blankets.

“Scotty,” Stiles says, sliding his hands under Scott’s shirt to play with the soft curve of his tummy. “Wake up, Scotty.” Scott hits him again, but rolls onto his back so Stiles is looking down at him. His eyes are shut, breathing deep, but Stiles is pretty sure he’s up a little bit.

“I’ll smoke it all without you,” Stiles says. “Then, I’ll make pancakes and not give you any at all.”

“Pancakes?” Scott slurs, opening one eyes tentatively. Stiles smiles down at him. Even sleepy and gross and greasy and stubborn, Scott is still Stiles’ absolute favorite.

“Pancakes and a strawberry blunt and a blowjob, if you’re down,” Stiles says, sneaking his hand up so that Scott’s shirt rucks up and Stiles gets to see the dark hair at his navel and around his nipples. “I really want to blow you.”

“Maybe that can persuade me,” Scott says, voice rough and low, not entirely from sleep. He tilts his hips up at Stiles, nudging his morning wood against Stiles’ leg. 

“Always gotta do something for you,” Stiles grumbles. It’s all a show and Scott knows it, Stiles likes to blow Scott as much as Scott likes Stiles blowing him. He goes slow, still weighed down by sleep. He takes his time licking Scott to get his wet all over, swallows him down, relishes the drag of his cock in Stiles’ mouth. Scott comes with his eyes screwed shut, sighing gently, like he’s too lazy to get a groan out.

Stiles slinks up his body and gives him a kiss that’s mostly jizz.

“Gross,” Scott whines, but licks into his mouth, tugs him close so he can give Stiles the most excruciating hand job ever, taking his time to get Stiles off, smirking. 

By the time Stiles comes it’s well past the time for pancake making. Stiles has to shove Scott out of bed and into the shower. Stiles sits on the toilet and smokes the blunt, shotgunning Scott hits while he scrubs himself down, hotboxing the bathroom so even with the shower running smoke clings to every corner.

They barely make it out of the bathroom in time for Scott to make it to class. Stiles sends him off with a messy kiss and the promise of pancakes for dinner. It’s easy like this, even if things don’t go as planned. All they have to do is take it a morning at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/138937309387/aweekofsaturdays-somedays-scott-doesnt-get)


	11. Sciles: The Boyfriend Jacket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles makes it his goal to steal Scott's jacket as much as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Anne

In his head, Stiles refers to _the_ jacket as the ‘boyfriend jacket’. There’s nothing that makes a jacket a boyfriend jacket, but Scott’s jacket with the American flag patch is definitely a _boyfriend jacket_. 

Maybe it’s the way it hangs off of his shoulders, a little roomy. It looks like it has a nice weight, like it should be handed over to a date when they get cold. Like it should be a declaration, like when dudes hand over their Letterman jackets in movies. The boyfriend jacket is a jacket of intent.

Stiles is kind of obsessed with the boyfriend jacket. 

He doesn’t mean to be, but he’s Stiles and he fixates. He’s accepted that about himself; he tries not to be obvious, that’s all he can really do. 

When the weather gets colder, Stiles actually gets _excited_. Scott wears hoodies and his leather jacket, but the boyfriend jacket is definitely Scott’s favorite (Stiles’ favorite too, _obviously_ ), so it makes multiple appearances. 

Stiles doesn’t know why he decides that this cold weather season it will be his goal to obtain the boyfriend jacket as much as possible, but he does. It’s like a double dare, to himself. 

_Stiles, I dare you, myself, to wear the boyfriend jacket as many times as possible._

It’s a reasonable challenge. Even more challenging when he decides that Scott absolutely must not figure out what he’s doing. Probably easier said than done. Stiles isn’t the best at reining in his own reactions. He gets incredibly smug when he thinks he’s getting away with something.

But, the desire for the boyfriend jacket outweighs any sense of self preservation that he has, so he begins. 

It starts small, sneaky. Stiles asking to borrow a jacket when he picks Scott up for school, pretending he forgot his. Scott lets him run up to the closet and Stiles grabs the boyfriend jacket. That can’t happen too often. He doesn’t want Scott to catch on to his preference. Unfortunately, it happens so often, Scott starts texting him in the morning, reminding him to bring his jacket. 

He thinks of other things, too. He claims he’s cold in the cafeteria, giving the boyfriend jacket pointed looks until Scott laughs and drops it across his shoulders. 

Scott sleeps over one day, and brings the boyfriend jacket. Stiles casually misplaces it so Scott forgets to take it home. (That one almost doesn’t count, it was a dirty cheat, but Stiles adds it to his total anyway. Everything counts, in his head.) Sometimes, he gets lucky. Scott leaves the boyfriend jacket in Stiles’ Jeep on accident and Stiles has to return it the next morning.

Only, the jacket starts getting left around more and more often. Stiles doesn’t think it’s negligence on Scott’s part. Scott takes care of his things. He doesn’t just go leaving them around other people’s rooms and vehicles on _accident_. 

Stiles has a full day of panic when he considers that Scott might be doing it on _purpose_. Like, maybe he caught on and he wants to see how long it takes Stiles to catch on that he caught on. The boyfriend jacket is totally Stiles’ _thing_ , but that’s embarrassing? To have a thing for a jacket because it belongs to your best friend, who you also have a life-crushing boner for.

It’s ridiculous, Stiles is ridiculous.

He abandons the boyfriend jacket plan. He has to. He can’t keep going on if Scott knows what he’s up to. That’s _embarrassing._  

So, he stops asking for it, brings his own jacket places. There’s no longer any forgetfulness on his part, he doesn’t hide the boyfriend jacket when Scott is at his house. 

But, Scott starts wearing it a lot more. Stiles is paranoid, and that is suspicious. Especially since Scott just keeps leaving it behind. He leaves Stiles’ house without it one day, and it's  _slung over the back of the chair he was sitting on_. 

Maybe Scott secretly wants Stiles to own the stupid thing. (Not stupid, never stupid, he loves that fucking jacket.) Maybe he’s baiting Stiles. Maybe he has absolutely no idea and it’s all a huge coincidence that Stiles has made a Big Deal out of in his head. 

Unlikely. 

“Why aren’t you stealing my jacket anymore?” Scott asks, proving Stiles’ point. (He _knows_.) He’s wearing the thing with a dark, tight henley underneath. Stiles has purposefully been avoiding mentally acknowledging _just_  how good he looks all day, but now that he thinks about it, he’s pretty much struck _dumb_ by how attractive Scott is.

Life isn’t fair.

Wait, what?

“What?” Stiles asks, weakly. 

“You’re not taking my jacket,” Scott says, frowning. His eyebrows are thick and expressive and Stiles wants to smooth his fingers over them. 

“I’m not,” Stiles agrees. Now he has to decide if he denies _ever_  stealing it, or if he fesses up. 

“Why not?”

“I don’t know?” Stiles asks. There’s a point to this conversation, but it’s lost in the pout on Scott’s face. Stiles doesn’t understand why the pout is there, but it’s adorable. “Do you want me to steal your jacket?”

Scott’s face immediately changes, blooming open with that genuine happiness that makes Stiles’ knees feel like jelly. “Yeah.”

“Yeah? You want me to steal your jacket?”

“I like when it smells like you,” Scott says, stepping closer. They’re standing pretty close when he hooks his fingers into Stiles’ loosely, drawing him closer. Stiles goes with it, blinking rapidly. “I thought you were cold, at first. And that you forgot, but you’re really obvious.”

“Obvious?” Stiles asks, around his thick tongue. Scott’s looking at him through his lashes. There’s a blush on his face. A _coy_  look. What the fuck.

“You leave it smelling like happiness,” Scott says, tracing Stiles’ fingers with the pads of his own, over his callouses and palm and to his pulse point under the skin of his wrist. “Like contentment… Arousal.”

“Yikes,” Stiles says, but there’s no real conviction behind it. It’s a gentle exhale of breath because Scott is _really_   _close_. Like maybe this is where they’re supposed to kiss. 

“I like when it smells like you,” Scott repeats. Then he steps away. He _steps away._

And pulls his jacket off. He steps behind Stiles and drapes it over Stiles’ shoulders like some high school movie cliche before coming in front of him. 

“Will you wear my jacket?” he asks, and it’s _so_  sincere because Scott is a _giant dork_. Stiles just nods at him dumbly, trying to process, while Scott is apparently already three steps ahead of him. 

Stiles gets a flash of Scott’s blinding smile before he presses their mouths together hard, surging into Stiles, grabbing the boyfriend jacket by the collar to reel him in. All Stiles can do is cling to Scott, kiss him back. He hums, low in his throat and happy. 

Bless the boyfriend jacket, honestly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on Tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/139040123872/quicklikelight-in-his-head-stiles-refers-to)


	12. Sciles: Feelings!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sciles + “It’s always been you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mia

It’s stupid. It’s stupid and cliche and probably selfish, but Stiles can’t keep himself from angrily blurting out the words. 

“It’s always been you.”

It should be said sweetly. It should be said sincerely. It should be whispered in between kiss pressed against lips softly – instead it’s spat out of Stiles’ mouth by his own pettiness. 

His eyes are wet and stinging. It’s all a dead giveaway. The lump lodged in his throat, the visible shake of his hand. It’s so obvious, he’s so obvious. He’s _always_  been so obvious. But Scott’s just oblivious and Stiles is pissed. Hurt and so, so selfish. 

“What, Stiles?” Scott’s touching, grabbing his arm. His hands are so gentle, like he’s afraid, and Stiles is a terrible person because he can’t reign any of this in. 

“It’s always been you,” Stiles says again, still mean. “Just you. You – you’re all I’ve wanted for so long. I can’t – I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do _what_?” Scott demands. The frustration is creeping in, Stiles can hear it in Scott’s voice. Good. 

“This,” Stiles says, gesturing between them. There’s a space between them, a few feet that they’re raising their voices over. It might as well be a chasm. “This. Us. I can’t. I’m done.”

It feels an awful lot like they’re breaking up, but that would require reciprocated feelings and Stiles knows better than that. Knows that Scott doesn’t feel _that way._

“Is this about what I said?” Scott asks, forehead puckering in a frown. Usually Stiles finds that look endearing, but right now it just makes him more angry. Scott should know, he should _know_. 

“Of course it is, Scott,” Stiles sneers. All that rage is pent up under his skin and he can’t help the curl of his lip, the hot shame that fills him. The embarrassment of thinking that maybe, just _maybe_  he meant more to Scott. 

Meant more than a brush off when Jackson asked Scott what was going on between them. More than an easy dismissal, a denial.

_Nothing’s going on._

Nothing.

“I wasn’t – I didn’t mean it,” Scott says, firmly. “Not like that, Stiles.”

A scoff tears itself out of Stiles’ throat. “That doesn’t make it better.”

“It doesn’t,” Scott admits. He’s edging closer, but Stiles notices and steps back, leaning away from him. This is a stupid conversation to have on the lawn of Jackson house, but here they are, practically shouting at each other while the party goes on without them inside. Unsurprisingly. 

The world has never needed the two of them to keep on rotating. 

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to say anything,” Scott says. He’s not trying to get any closer, but he’s looking at Stiles with these giant, shining eyes and Stiles can’t stand it. 

“I. What?”

“About us,” Scott says. He looks at the ground, the house, the sky. Not at Stiles. “I didn’t know if you wanted Jackson fucking Whittemore to be the first person to know we were _fucking_.”

“You literally told him you’re not attracted to me,” Stiles says. Still angry, even if Scott has a point. 

“I said I don’t see you that way,” Scott says, frowning sharply, mouth turning down at the corners. “Which is not the same thing. _And_  you know it’s not true.”

“Sounded convincing,” Stiles says, rubbing at his chest where his heart has beaten a tattoo against his rib cage. His hands are still trembling. He hates this feeling. 

“Well, it was bullshit,” Scott snaps. “We never talked about what we’re doing. I don’t even know – why would I want Jackson to know?”

“I don’t – I don’t know,” Stiles says, mind whirling in confusion. “You don’t know?”

“No,” Scott says, through up his hands in exasperation. “I have no idea. You stuck your hands down my pants one day and I liked it! We never actually talked about what the hell we were doing, dude.”

“Boning,” Stiles says, helpfully. The rage has evaporated completely. Now he feels empty, scooped out, hollow. All that fun stuff. “I just. Wanted you.”

“I figured you just wanted to get laid,” Scott says, crossing his arms over his chest, tipping his chin up defiantly. “I thought that’s why we weren’t talking about it.”

“It wasn’t _just_ that,” Stiles says, looking away. That was definitely a motivator, but he wasn’t lying when he said that it’s always been Scott. He’s been obsessed with Scott for years. Sleeping with him felt like a natural progression. 

“I didn’t know,” Scott says, small and quiet and a lot more heartbroken than Stiles can deal with. “I didn’t want Jackson to know that.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says. For snapping, for being accusatory, for not being clear. “I didn’t know we needed to talk about it.”

“I know you didn’t,” Scott sighs, shoulders rounding. Like he’s defeated, like he doesn’t know what to do with Stiles. A sharp ache forms in Stiles’ chest. He closes the distance between them in two steps, pressing his fingers under Scott’s jaw to make him tilt his head up. 

“It’s always been you,” Stiles says, so low and so soft. He’s barely breathing. Scott nods once, hurt still written all over his face. He lets Stiles pull him into a tight hug, anyway, doesn’t fight it. They’ll be okay, Stiles thinks.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [reblog on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/147280835662/its-stupid-its-stupid-and-cliche-and-probably)


	13. Scerydia: Tied Down (nsfw, bdsm)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott/Derek/Lydia + kiss along the hips for Lonnie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw, d/s dynamics

There’s a deep satisfaction in pinning Scott down, having him pinned down. Lydia loves the long lines of his body, stretched taut on the bed. Thick black ropes are wrapped around his wrists and ankles, stretching him out, keeping him still. Nowhere to go.  

It’s heady to be in control of someone who has the power to break free at any moment. The ropes aren’t wolfsbane. Scott could flex and snap the rope, splinter the headboard, but he doesn’t. For her, because of her, because she asked him not to. It makes her swell with adoration, makes her throb and ache for him.  

He’s been tied to the headboard for awhile now. The veins under his skin are popping out with effort, muscles of his arm round and flexed. She wonders if his arms are burning, wonders if he can feel it in his shoulders, up his neck. He likes the strain, likes things just a little bit mean. She can give him that. If she can’t, Derek can. 

“Doesn’t he look good?” Lydia asks, as Derek comes up behind her, pressing his body against hers. She can feel how hard he is, dick hot through the fabric of his briefs as he wraps his large arms around her, fingers skittering down her chest and belly, dipping into her underwear before moving on. 

For once, she’s glad she gave him permission to touch her freely. Usually she doesn’t. Hands off until she thinks they’ve done their fair share, but tonight she needs it, needs his hands all over her. She wanted to be naked already, wanted to feel every press of skin, but Derek likes the way she looks in lingerie; all the lace and straps and lines, ass and tits presented with a bow on top. The heat in his eyes is worth taking the time to undress. 

“He looks so good,” Derek agrees, voice rough. She likes to think she can feel it rumble in his big chest when it’s this deep. On the bed, Scott’s watching them both intently. It looks like patience, but she doesn’t have to be a wolf to know tightly wound he is. His chest rises and falls sharply, cock weeping against the skin of his hips. There’s a deep blush over his cheeks and chest. 

The image is picture perfect. It makes her lightheaded just looking at him.

Lydia untangles herself from Derek to make her way over to the bed. Scott’s neck cranes to watch her, teeth biting into his bottom lip. He’s not supposed to make noise, but she knows that she’ll lift the rule once she gets her thighs around his head. 

“Scott,” she says, trailing her hand up his thigh. His muscle jumps under her fingertips. She waits until his eyes focus on her a little more to continue. “Derek’s going to eat you out now, okay?”

Scott nods, eyes flickering to Derek’s, a little smile tugging at his lips. She gives his thigh a tap to get his attention again.

“I’m going to sit on your face while he does that,” Lydia says. She’s so wet, she can’t wait to get his mouth on her. “If you can wait to come until after I do, you’ll get a reward. If not, you won’t come at all tonight. Maybe tomorrow, too.”

Scott’s eyes dart between her and Derek. It will be a challenge, because Derek’s mouth is heavenly and Derek knows all the right ways to tease Scott, knows how to put him right on the edge. Scott does like challenges, though. 

“I want to hear you,” she says, gently, because she forgot to tell him that he could talk. “I want to hear you when I’m on your face, when Derek’s between your legs. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” Scott says. It’s so low that Lydia almost doesn’t hear it. His throat jumps as he swallows a couple of times. “Yes, ma’am.”

“What a good boy,” Lydia says, approvingly, watching the way he beams at her in response. She leans up and presses a chaste kiss to his forehead before crawling over him to settle in place. It takes a minute to arrange themselves, she likes to sit in reverse so that she can watch Derek, the way he touches Scott. Getting to see them together is as good as getting off herself. 

Her thighs shake in anticipation as she lowers herself down onto his mouth, pulling her panties to the side for him. She can see where his muscles flex as he arches up to meet her, groaning low as he licks into her. She echoes him, high and breathy. At the foot of the bed, she hears Derek moan as well. 

He’s looking at her, waiting for his cue. She nods at him to go ahead, grinding down on Scott’s face as Derek kneels between Scott’s legs and touches him. His hands are so big they cup Scott’s thighs easily, pushing them apart. Scott’s boneless, easy to manipulate, concentrated on eating Lydia out. 

Lydia watches as Derek presses a sweet kiss to Scott’s hip before lifting them and licking down the crease of Scott’s hip. It makes her ache, the way he’s so tender with Scott, how they automatically sync up when Derek starts rimming Scott; how they pace each other flawlessly, how she can feel herself getting close and then feel Scott’s muscles tightening below her as he tries not to come before she does.  

She doesn’t think many things are perfect, but the three of them are pretty close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/141218667027/scottdereklydia-kiss-along-the-hips)


	14. Scira: Collarbones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> collarbone kiss for Kat

“I can’t come out,” Kira says. Scott can smell how anxious she is through the door of his closet. Not that he needs to smell her to know, the fact that she’s in his closet is a dead giveaway. They’ve gotten past the body shyness, or he thought they had. Whatever makes her feel comfortable. “This is terrible.”

“It’s not terrible,” Scott says. He hears her sigh. “I don’t have to see it to know that it’s not terrible. Nothing about you could ever be terrible.”

“You say that because you haven’t seen me,” Kira says, with that little huff that means she’s trying not to smile because she’s Annoyed. Scott grins to himself, trying not to laugh loud enough for her to hear him. 

“Babe,” he whines. “Baaaabe.”

“Okay, be quiet,” she says. This time, he can definitely hear her smile. He shuts his mouth loudly, teeth clacking together. There’s shifting and then Kira takes a deep breath. He hears her fingers touch the knob, but she doesn’t turn it. The silence stretches, her pulse loud behind the door.

Scott fidgets.

“You don’t have to come out,” he says. He really doesn’t want her to be uncomfortable. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It was a present, Scott,” Kira says, sternly. He imagines her subtle frown. She takes another breath. “Okay. No camera.”

“No camera,” Scott agrees. His phone is on the other side of the room, anyway, but it’s not like he would. Especially when she’s this nervous. 

“Okay,” she says, again. Scott’s palms are prickling with sweat. The anticipation is making him tense. It’s not going to be terrible, he knows it’s not, but it seems like it will be from the way she’s hesitating. 

The doorknob turns and Kira steps out, hovering in the doorway.

It’s not terrible. It’s the opposite of terrible. Scott didn’t know what he expected when he bought the lingerie, this is so much more than he imagined. It’s obvious she’s self conscious, but she looks radiant. 

The top is lacy, pale pink and sheer enough that he can see the dusky brown of her nipples through the fabric. Every strap is delicate, somehow holding everything in place. The bottoms sit low on her hips, but the garter belt is on top of it, clipped to thin white stockings. 

“Holy shit,” Scott says, mouth suddenly very dry. Kira’s hands come up around her stomach, hiding her skin. It’s enough to make him leap up and bound over to her, hands sliding along her arms. 

“God you look amazing,” he says, pressing a kiss to her temple. “If you don’t want to wear it, you don’t have to, but _god_ , you look amazing.”

“Yeah?” she asks, pulling back to look at him. He nods with all the sincerity he can muster. 

“It’s perfect,” he says, skating his hands over her shoulders and arms. She softens under him, going a little more loose the more he touches her. “You’re so gorgeous. How did I get so lucky?”

“Shut up,” she says, quietly, without any heat. Scott grins at her and tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear. He presses a kiss to her mouth, her jaw. She tilts her head so that he can kiss her neck before tugging the strap to the side and kissing her collarbone.

The anxiety is giving way to arousal quickly. It’s heady, sweet on his tongue, just a little spicy. He wants to get his mouth all over her.

“I could take my time and peel you out of this,” he says, gripping her around the waist and tossing her onto the bed. She squeaks when she lands, bouncing. There’s a grin on her face, legs falling open to accommodate him. “Piece by piece.”

He presses more kisses to the inside of her knee, making his way higher, teasing his lips over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. 

“Fine,” she says. “It’s not _terrible_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/141230232502/11-scira)


	15. Stalia: Petrichor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petrichor: the smell of dry rain on the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt fill for Kat

The Preserve always settles after a storm. This year was strange, between the Santa Ana winds mixing with early autumn showers, it’s warmer than it usually is after it rains. 

Malia likes these moments, the stillness in the air. She shed her shoes right at the edge of the trees, then her shirts and pants until she was down to her tank top and boy shorts. Goosebumps prickle her skin. After all this time as a human, she still gets too cold too quickly, but it’s easier to deal with now.

The dirt sinks under her feet, wet and muddy. She can hear every bird, every rustle of the leaves, the branches that creak overhead and snap underfoot. Moments like this, she misses being a coyote, misses the way she was a _part_  of it all. Nature is different when you’re human, more disconnected. If she could get back her full shift, she would spend hours as an animal. She wants to roll around, wants to reclaim her place. 

Instead, she walks through the trees, upright, stepping carefully. She trails her fingers on dewy leaves, soaks up the fading sun. She lets her senses go, lets her control drop. She lets herself feel, fangs prickling her gums and claws out the barest amount. She’s always been a hybrid, but she has to hide it. 

The moments after the rain are the ones where she doesn’t have to pretend. 

She walks the dried creek bed to the boulders that look over Beacon Hills, the cliff with the city spread out underneath it. The wind is turning cooler as the sun sinks further into the horizon. The sky is bright red and violent orange.

She climbs onto the boulder with the flattest top and settles on her back, feels every bump and ridge dig into her skin at every point of contact. Her eyes slip shut as she listens to the pulse of the woods. 

It doesn’t take long for him to find her. If she didn’t know Stiles so intimately, she would have sworn he was some kind of creature with the uncanny ability to _know_. He knows things about her even she doesn’t know. He’s an observer, he watches and absorbs all the information around him.

Which is why he can always find her when she wanders away. 

She cracks an eye open and looks at him. He’s layered like normal. A jacket, a button down plaid, a t-shirt, jeans, socks, shoes with muddy soles. There’s gel in his hair, chapstick on his mouth. The entirety of him is such a jarring contrast to their surroundings, it’s almost painful.

“Ugh,” she says, watching him. He stops short, blinking at her, looking around for an explanation like he’ll find one on the ground. “You’re too human, Stiles.”

“Too human?” he asks, neck jutting out like it does when he’s simultaneously baffled and offended. Or baffled as to if he should be offended.

“Too many clothes,” she says. “Take them off, wipe your lips, do something about your hair. Please?” The request tacked on at the end is simply manners, she probably wouldn’t let him up on her boulder if he didn’t listen. 

He strips hurriedly, until he’s down to his boxers, skinny knees knocking together from the breeze. He even takes off his socks. She smiles at him as he wipes his lips on the back of his hand, then his hand on his boxers. 

“Come here?” she asks. Politely. He smiles at her softly and climbs up to her. She can feel the warmth from his body as soon as he gets close. His scent mixes perfectly with the rain, warm and spicy and homey. 

He doesn’t say anything, just brackets her with his body. His legs slide against hers, big hands spanning her arms. She wiggles her bra off so that she can feel the skin of their chests when they press together. Lips to hips and thighs, legs tangling together. 

He runs his tongue over her fangs, arousal heating up the air around them. They’re probably going to fuck on this rock and Stiles will have bruises on his knees. They’ll lay next to each other after, and he’ll ask her if she misses it. She’ll say sometimes. She’ll say she likes being with him more and it will be the truth. 

Having him here, in this moment, reminds her that being human doesn’t mean she’s disconnected. Just connected in a different way, anchored to a boy instead of the land. She doesn’t think it’s so bad, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/139586248252/petrichor-stalia)


	16. Stalia: Vegas Wedding AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stalia + “Don’t panic but I think we might have accidentally gotten married…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Kat

The worst thing about a morning after is the awkwardness. Waking up to some stranger in your bed that may or may not be as attractive as they seemed the night before. Are they going to be up first? Will they expect you to leave right away? Should you take your time or sneak out? Did it get too freaky last night? Was it _good_? 

And okay, maybe the dude isn’t a complete stranger. Malia knew who he was before she agree to have sex with him, at least. They hadn’t met before, but Malia had heard plenty about Stiles Stilinski from Scott. They were best friends and even though Stiles went to school on the east coast, it wasn’t going to stop him from being best man at Scott and Kira’s wedding. They even started a GoFundMe page to get him to Vegas. 

As interested as she was in meeting the Infamous Stiles, there wasn’t time during the wedding. Each of them too busy with their respective roles, with the bride and the groom, but after the reception, once the wedding party went bar hopping. Well. 

She remembers Stiles leaning against the bar next to her at the first stop, all easy grins and charm. Captivating with his broad shoulders and self conscious smile, mischief tucked in the corner. Everything he said was goofy, or quick witted – sweet without being overbearing. Like he knew he had her caught attention the minute they laid eyes on each other.

And, maybe he did.

She remembers his big hands on her bare shoulders, on her hips, as he complimented her dress, lips brushing against her ear. She remembers the slow-crawl of shivers down her back, the tingle of her skin when he pressed a quick kiss to her neck, a thoughtless promise. 

Malia remembers Kira’s eyeing her before saying, “when in Vegas!” and taking a shot with her, brand new wedding band glinting in the low light of the club. Malia took another shot to drown the disbelief that her best friend was _married_. 

It was a good disbelief and she loved Scott a lot, they were perfect for each other. But _still_. 

When in Vegas. 

Malia remembers getting Stiles to dance, hopelessly endeared by his complete lack of grace, hands on his hips in attempt to guide him. _That_  worked, like it was his plan all along. He pressed their bodies together, grinding in, and yeah – that worked. 

They hung off each other for the rest of the night, following the wedding party from bar to bar. Her feet ached from the heels, her stomach hurt from how much he made her laugh. When she complained, he hoisted her up on his back. That didn’t keep her from laughing, but it did help her feet. 

After the third bar they ended up in, she stops being able to remember. Which isn’t a surprise, considering how much they had to drink. She definitely wishes she knew what happened with Stiles last night, but she’s not too concerned. It was fun, she’s sure.

Sneaking out is probably moot point, since they still have to spend the rest of the weekend together, running around the Strip with Scott and Kira. They might as well make the most of it. 

She finally opens her eyes and stretches, shifting onto her side so that she’s facing Stiles. He’s just as handsome as she remembers, sharp jaw and high cheekbones, thick lashes and a pouty mouth. 

She wants to sit on his face. 

Which is always a good thought to have, first thing in the morning.

Malia reaches out to touch him, stroke his cheek or press her fingers to the mouth shaped bruises on his neck, but she freezes, eyes glued to her ring finger. 

“What the fuck?” she breathes, squinting at it, hoping to death she’s hallucinating the smooth gold band that’s sitting there. 

“Wha’?” 

Apparently, that was loud enough to wake Stiles. His eyes flutter open. They look impossibly dark in the room, curtains still drawn. There’s a smile tugging the corner of his mouth, like he’s happy to see her. Malia forgets the ring for a second, warmth spreading to her chest that makes her smile back at him.

“What’s up?” Stiles asks, voice rough with sleep and unbearably sexy. His hand sneaks out from under the sheet to cover hers, making panic slam into her chest. 

“Don’t panic,” she says, slowly, hating the way his face goes frowny and confused. “I think we might have accidentally gotten married…” 

It takes a beat. A slow blink from him, mouth wobbling, before he – laughs outrageously, flopping onto his back. Malia lifts herself up onto her elbow and pokes his chest. He doesn’t stop laughing. 

“What is so funny?” she demands, hotly. “We got Vegas married! This isn’t funny!”

“We didn’t,” Stiles says, rolling back over and then rolling on _top_ of her, pinning her down. There’s a gold band on his left ring finger, too. He laces their fingers together and grins down at her. “They’re fake.”

“They’re _fake_?”

“Bubblegum machine rings,” he says. His eyes are sparkling in amusement. The knot in Malia’s chest is loosening up. “You wanted the experience. Jealous, I think.”

“Oh thank _fuck_ ,” she says, sighing in relief, going slack beneath him. 

“You don’t want to Vegas marry me?” Stiles demands, indignant, face screwed up in a ridiculous way that makes her giggle. 

“I don’t even know you,” she says. 

“You can get to know me,” Stiles replies, leering. He grinds his hips down, rocking his morning wood into the cradle of her hips.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Malia says, arching her back to meet his thrust. A groan escapes his throat, low and breathless. That tight, tingly feeling works its way into the bottom of her stomach. “I don’t _really_ remember what happened last night –”

“Obviously,” Stiles says, with a snort, still moving his hips against hers. 

“Maybe you can remind me,” she says, with a giggle. Stiles doesn’t bother responding, just tightens his grip on her hands and kisses her firmly. She smiles against his lips, giddy. “Not bad for a fake husband.”

“Not bad for a fake wife,” he replies, cheekily, kissing her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [reblog on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/147275821882/the-worst-thing-about-a-morning-after-is-the)


	17. Stalia: 63 Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stalia + things you said when you were drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Kat

It’s been 63 days. Malia tries not to think about it. Weeks later and there’s still a black hole in her stomach. That feeling like missing a step, the drop before a stumble. The hot flush after you right yourself, embarrassed that you let gravity get the best of you. 

Maybe that’s her issue, gravity – or the metaphor of _falling_ for someone, tripping into their orbit. Letting yourself revolve around them thoughtlessly, trustingly. Naively, she never questioned it, didn’t think she had to. Naively, she thought it wouldn’t matter because it was love – and love doesn’t bend or break easily. 

Except when it does. Except in the front seats of cars, anxiety so thick it’s choking. Saying “it didn’t matter to me” and not knowing why it was the wrong thing to say. Not knowing why Stiles ended up walking away. 

It’s been 63 days and she still thinks about it when she’s trying to fall asleep, trying to understand. Trying to make peace with the fact that she won’t ever understand. 

Trying to decide whether or not to answer the phone when Stiles’ name flashes across the screen for the third time. 

Malia props her chin on her knuckles and watches her phone vibrate. It’s been 63 days and the lock screen is still the picture of her biting Stiles’ cheek while he grins like a maniac, like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him – she doesn’t think it was, actually, the best thing that ever happened to him. Which is why she hates that it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to _her_. 

The thought tastes bitter, heavy, lodges in her throat and threatens to push tears out of her eyes. She doesn’t know if it meant as much to Stiles as it meant to her. If _she_ meant as much to Stiles as he meant to her – because they’re more than an accumulation of first times and shared experiences, they’re hearts and souls and a connection Malia can’t shake even when she tries.

The phone stops ringing. 

It takes six minutes for a rock to hit Malia’s window. For Malia to hear Stiles nervously shifting his weight in her yard, waiting for her. His heart is beating quick like a rabbit, like prey. The smell of alcohol overpowers the way he usually smells like anxiety, and she thinks about how there should be a picture of Stiles next to the phrase ‘ _false bravado_ ’ when you Google it. 

“What?” Malia asks, leaning out of her window, pitching her voice louder than a whisper for his human ears to pick up on. 

Stiles smiles at her like it’s hasn’t been 63 days since he shattered her heart and slammed the door on all her good intentions. 

“You didn’t answer my call,” he says. Shouts, really, even though his voice is surprisingly steady for how strongly he smells of Lydia’s prime jungle juice.

“I didn’t,” Malia agrees, flinging her legs over the windowsill, pressing her bare feet to the scratchy roofing. Goosebumps breakout over her bare skin, breeze cutting through her threadbare tank top and shorts. She’s not cold, just shivering in anticipation. 

“Can I come up?” Stiles asks, tentatively, flinging his hand out towards her as she sits outside her window. 

“Sure,” she agrees, drawing her knees up to her chest to wait. 

It’s funny how humans do things. How hard they try. There’s a key under the false rock in the backyard that Stiles could have used to get in the backdoor and climb the stairs. Instead, he climbs the porch, huffing and puffing with determination. 

The silence settles over them as he settles in next to her, closer than he should probably be sitting after 63 days of courtesy nods. 

It takes awhile. Long minutes of waiting him out, listening to the way his breathing normalizes, even as his pulse jumps around with nerves. He smells like Axe and fruit punch and sweat and dirt. He smells like everything she’s loved since she kissed him for the first time in that dirty basement. He smells like home, and she hates herself for thinking it. 

“Miss you,” he says. It’s a reluctant exhale of breath, but he’s not lying.

Malia digs her chin into the top of her knee and bites the inside of her lip hard enough to taste the copper of her own blood. 

“Okay,” she agrees. She doesn’t know what else to say. Stiles should know that she misses him. He should know that she can’t stop thinking about him. He should know that she can’t sleep well without him. That she hasn’t changed her phone background. How, in her head, she still calls him her boyfriend, and can’t bring herself to correct the thought. 

“I was stupid,” he says. It sounds like a question, with a lilt at the end.

“Were you?” she asks, but she’s nodding, already answering her own question. She agrees. “You were.”

“I was,” Stiles says. 

Then he says, “I’m sorry.” 

Then he says, “I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

Then he says, “I made a mistake.”

Then he says, “You were the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Then he says, “Forgive me.”

It’s been 63 days, but he should know that she already has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [reblog on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/149734675062/11-stalia)


	18. Sterek: Falling Asleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ♡: Accidentally falling asleep together for sippingonstardust

It doesn’t matter that Derek is the only person who lives at the loft. Everyone treats it as a way station. It’s a pit stop, the meet up point, the place where they plan and meet outside of the clinic. Derek doesn’t know how to feel about it. 

It gets worse when people start falling asleep there, like they own the place. No regard for his personal space. Derek knows the pack doesn’t get a lot of sleep. They are a group of teenagers, constantly vigilant, traumatized multiple times over. It’s a miracle any of them sleep at all.

Stiles especially doesn’t sleep. He’s up all hours of the day whenever Derek texts him; morning, noon, obscene hours of the night. The only time Stiles does seem to sleep is when he’s at Derek’s.

The first time it happened, Stiles passed out against the wall, sitting up. It was one of those days where they ran from the school to the clinic to Derek’s to the Preserve, searching for clues and hints and – everything they did when there was a new threat in town. It happened like that a lot. The second time, he fell onto Derek’s couch and actually kicked Derek when Derek insisted that Stiles go home and nap. 

The third time, Derek let him stay because Stiles mentioned something about sleeping in his Jeep. Derek might be a jerk, but he’s not a monster. 

Somehow. _Somehow_. His couch accumulates a pillow. Or two. For decoration. And a throw blanket, for decoration. _Just in case._

Stiles isn’t the only one who’s passed out on the couch. Scott has, Erica has, Boyd would if he wasn’t too big for it. He’s even come home to Lydia curled up on one end, one hand hanging off the couch. So. It’s not _just_  for Stiles.

Stiles does sleep there the most, though, Boyd helpfully points out. When he’s waiting for Scott to meet up with them, or waiting for a call from another pack member, or if there’s a lull in planning and he has 20 minutes. 

Sometimes he shows up in the middle of the night, with a stolen key and no explanation. Derek sleeps on a normal schedule, unlike the rest of them, but he always wakes up when Stiles comes in, listens to his heart and his breath as he collapses onto Derek’s couch. 

Derek used to be an extremely tactile person. If it was his family, his pack from before, he wouldn’t hesitate to offer Stiles his bed. Just the heartbeat of another person close is comforting. There hasn’t been anyone in his bed in a long time. 

But, Derek isn’t like that with anyone in the pack. Touching and being close is a little foreign between them, even his own bitten wolves. They all operate with human boundaries, except Scott and Stiles, who have no boundaries, similar to wolves.

So, as much as he wants to, he never invites Stiles closer. The sound of his heart is enough to drop Derek back into a dead sleep, even if he’s not surrounded by his scent or close to his warmth.

Falling asleep together happens by chance. It’s a cliche, honestly. The fact that another pack would make a run for Beacon Hills after everything that’s happened over the last few years is laughable. 

The rival pack has double the pack members and ends up being relentless, but they have Scott and humans with hunter regalia and a full shift wolf and an emissary-in-training. They drive the other wolves out, splitting up to make sure there aren’t any stragglers. 

Derek, Stiles, and Isaac are all together in the aftermath - shooting off texts to other pack members (location and status of injuries). It’s edging 5AM, sun peaking over the horizon, making the sky soften in pastels. The minute the three of them stumble through the door, Isaac collapses on the sofa, face first. 

Stiles stands in the middle of the room, frowning at his prone body, listing a little on his feet, like he can’t conceive of anyone else getting Derek’s couch besides _him_. 

It’s not endearing, it’s not.

Derek strides past him, pulling on the back of his obnoxious plaid. He smells like sweat and dirt and exhaustion.

Stiles glares, but doesn’t protest as Derek pulls him along. Derek has to nudge him in the direction of the bed. When Stiles doesn’t do anything, Derek pushes him between his shoulders, making him collapse. 

“Sleep,” Derek says, voice rough. He toes off his shoes and pushes off his jeans and rolls into bed. Stiles follows example, making a face before unbuttoning his plaid and tossing it aside. There’s a Superman symbol on his undershirt.

The bed is big enough that they don’t have to touch, but Stiles falls towards the middle, so they’re not that far apart. He stares at Derek, who’s struggling to keep his eyes open. 

“Scott’s coming,” Stiles says, with a tired slur. Derek nods gently.

“I’ll stay up,” he lies. Stiles snorts at him, but closes his eyes. It’s only a minute before his breathing goes deep and even, mouth hanging open. Derek feels the heat of his body, hears his heart, and falls asleep after a second longer. 

(When they wake up, they’ve gravitated towards each other. Stiles’ arm is slung over Derek’s hip, snuggled into his chest. They don’t say anything as they peel apart, because nearly the whole pack has made it back to the loft, but Derek knows he won’t hesitate inviting Stiles back into his bed. For sleeping purposes. To nap. Of course.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/138115612617/sterek-plus-or-please)


	19. Sterek: Cagamosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cagamosis: an unhappy marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt fill for obiwhan  
> unhealthy relationship behavior, mental health

Stiles didn’t want it to be like this. They’ve always fought, bickered. It’s part of who they _are_ , who they’ve always been: rough around the edges and severely jaded. Stiles never expected them to fit perfectly together, they liked challenging each other too much, but this is something else. 

This is fighting about stupid shit, getting offended when they shouldn’t. This is jumping to conclusions. Jealousy and paranoia and not _trusting_  each other. After everything, he thought their trust would be solid, unwavering, but it isn’t. Not in this way. Trust with vulnerable emotions and love is different than trusting that someone will catch you if you fall into a pool paralyzed, or dive in front of the crossbow bolt meant for your fragile human body. 

Without a doubt, Stiles knows that Derek would take a bullet or a blade for him. Just like (he hopes) Derek knows Stiles would burn the world for him. But, love. Love is different. Emotions are different.

Love is a chest cut open and a beating heart bleeding all over the floor. Love hurts worse than a punch in the face because there’s no way to apply ice to callous remarks. Emotions are convoluted and hard to make sense of, easier to ignore than confront.

The problem is, Stiles doesn’t know if they mean half the words they say to each other, or if it’s just a knee jerk reaction, cutting each other deeply because they can. Maybe they’re too used to being so pushed to their limits that they can’t reign themselves back when they take it too far. 

Stiles has said shitty things, he’s brought up Kate and Jennifer, even Braeden – even though he adores her. He’s brought up Derek prioritizing Scott over him, he’s brought up Derek leaving. Anything and everything he thinks he can use to hurt to Derek. 

Derek doesn’t hesitate to throw it back at him. His obsession with Lydia, his ‘savior complex’, not trusting Scott. He calls Stiles jealous and controlling and cruel and angry. The worst part is that he’s right, he’s right about everything. 

Stiles is not a good person, he doesn’t know if he even pretends to be anymore. It’s evident in the way that he pushes Derek. The way he drags Derek into the worst fights without regard for emotional stability between the two of them. 

He’s ashamed of the way he’s making Derek regress. Derek was at a point where he was better, less angry, smiled more. All of those things still happen, but they happen less now. Stiles knows he reminds Derek of the anger, the way he challenges Derek like he always has. Stiles is fucked up, and he needs everyone to be as fucked up as he is. 

There used to be jokes to break the heavy silences between them, now he can’t bring himself to crack them. He just doesn’t feel it. There’s nothing funny about feeling the gaping distance between the person you cherish more than almost anyone else in the world. Despite everything he’s said in their arguments, every time he’s threatened to walk, he still loves Derek more than anything. He just doesn’t know how to stop himself.

And he fucked up. 

He knows he fucked up. He doesn’t know what he said, or what he did. He knows he had an episode, because he completely whited out. The PTSD does that to him, he just forgets where he is and what he’s doing and usually it’s _bad_. 

He blinked out of his fugue state with a broken phone and an empty apartment and – He fucked up. He got in his Jeep and got a replacement phone and called Scott. Scott refused to tell him where Derek was. He sounded more sympathetic when Stiles told him that he couldn’t remember but…

Scott’s always urged him to get in therapy and Stiles has flat out refused. It’s not his first episode, far from. It gets worse when he’s stressed, and he knows at this point he’s just being stubborn and angry. He’s _always_ stubborn and angry. It’s exhausting, but he doesn’t know how to _stop_. 

The apartment has been empty for three days. Stiles can’t bring himself to call Derek. He doesn’t know if he can handle Derek telling him that he’s leaving for good this time. There might be divorce papers. Derek might give Stiles back his wedding ring. 

Stiles calls off work, claiming he has a stomach virus. He curls up in his bed and feels sorry for himself. At one point, there might be whiskey and Stiles crying into his phone at someone’s voicemail. Drunk Stiles took care of the evidence, deleted his call history before he passed out, so Sober Stiles has no idea who he was sobbing at. 

He hopes it wasn’t Derek. He hopes it _was_  Derek. So Derek knows how wrecked he is, how much of a mess he is. How much Stiles _needs_  Derek. 

None of this is healthy, Stiles doesn’t know how to stop being unhealthy. 

On the fourth day, he wakes up to Derek asleep on the sofa. He think he’s hallucinating at first, heart stalling painfully in his chest. He can barely breathe. Derek looks so peaceful when he’s asleep, face soft. Stiles has missed him so much he wants to throw up. 

He can’t bring himself to wake Derek, so he climbs into the arm chair and just watches. The way Derek breathes, the steady pace of his chest. Alive and whole and healthy. His hair is messy, eyelashes dark against his pale skin. Everything about him is as neat as normal, beard trimmed and skin fresh. 

Stiles looks like unholy hell in comparison. He can’t remember when he last showered. The tears start falling when he sees the platinum band still around Derek’s finger. It’s still there. The ring is still there. 

Stiles can’t stop himself from sobbing about… everything. About them, how much potential that they’ve wasted – how much time Stiles has spent being cruel instead of loving. How utterly fucked up he is. How he’s hurt Derek, how they’ve hurt each other. He doesn’t want this to be his last memory of Derek.

He doesn’t want Derek to wake up and tell him that it’s over, he doesn’t want to let Derek go. He wants to be selfish. He wants Derek in his bed, sunlight soft on his skin. He wants Derek in his Jeep and in the kitchen and in their shower. He wants to hold Derek’s hand, beg for forgiveness. He wants to stop feeling so haunted. 

He wants to stop everything. The fighting, the pain. He wants to be different. 

He doesn’t know how long he cries for. When he stops, Derek is sitting up, watching him silently. Stiles wipes face roughly. It’s not the first time Derek has seen him cry, it shouldn’t matter, but Stiles wishes he could be more calm for this. 

“I can’t do this,” Derek says, voice rough. The words Stiles dreads the most. They stare at each other. “I can’t keep doing this, fighting like this.”

“I don’t want to,” Stiles says, cringing at how desperate he sounds. It doesn’t matter. Stiles will grovel for this relationship. “I want to be better. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Derek.”

“You’ve said that before,” Derek reminds him. Stiles has. They both have. They’ve both threatened to leave before. Stiles has gotten as far as staying at his dad’s for a week, but they always come back with empty promises, pretending like everything will be okay. “We keep doing this.”

“I know, Derek, I know.” They should end this, it would be better for the both of them. They should separate and work through their shit. They shouldn’t stay together, and yet – “I don’t want to keep doing this. I want to work it out. I want _us_.”

“I want us too,” Derek says, hands curling into fists against his thighs. Stiles watches him breathe, numbly. “I just can’t keep fighting.”

“I’m looking into therapy,” Stiles says, quickly. Day two of Stiles being miserable had him Googling professional help. There are three numbers sitting in his phone. All of them do couple’s counselling. “I’m going to go this time. I’m going to get better.”

He’ll make Scott hold him accountable, he’ll make sure that he goes. He refuses to keep doing this to himself, to _them_. 

“You said that. In your voicemail.”

“Fuck,” Stiles groans, dropping his head into his hands. He remembers some of that. Remembers feeling so sorry for himself, rambling about how much he needed Derek. “I’m sorry. That should have been on Scott’s voicemail. I wasn’t trying to use that to manipulate you.”

Unhealthy relationship 101. Stiles wouldn’t hold his own feelings over Derek’s head like that.

“I know,” Derek says. It might be a lie, but Stiles will take it. Stiles will take anything right now. 

“You’re important to me,” Stiles says, in a rush. It looks like Derek is going to get up or say something that steps on the moment, so Stiles needs to get everything out. “Your happiness is important to me. I’ve been prioritizing my own feelings over yours, and I’m going to stop. If we can’t be together, I can live with that. I love you, I need you to be happy. Even if it’s not with me.”

“Stiles –”

“I’m serious Derek, I can’t keep hurting you. I can’t keep making you miserable.”

“Why are insisting that this is all your fault?” Derek asks, sharply. They’re tipping into argument territory. Stiles shrinks into the chair. “We’ve both fucked up, okay? Scott told me… He told me it was an episode. I understand that, you know I do. I just needed to think.”

“That’s _fair_ ,” Stiles insists. 

“I know it is,” Derek says, staring at him. “This isn’t your fault. Neither of us have bothered restraining ourselves.”

“But this time –”

“This time I riled you up and you lashed out, instead of the other way around,” Derek says, eyes dropping to the floor like he’s embarrassed. “We haven’t been good to each other, but we can be.”

“We can,” Stiles agrees, heart jumping in his throat. “I know we can.” Derek looks at him with a veiled hopefulness and Stiles’ chest goes tight. All his emotions feel sideways. Elated and miserable and hopeful and terrified, it’s all lodged in his throat, total chaos. 

“We need to try to be better,” Derek says. “We have to promise each other that we’ll be better.”

“I _promise_ ,” Stiles says, barely restraining a sob. “There’s going to be therapy, so much therapy.”

“For both of us,” Derek says, dropping off the couch so he’s sitting in front of the chair Stiles is curled up in. “We can work on our communication.”

“And restraining ourselves.”

“And not jumping to conclusions.”

“And reminding each other –” Stiles’ voice breaks as Derek leans forward and presses his head to Stiles’ leg. He cups the back of Derek’s neck and drags his thumb against the skin there. “Reminding each other that we love each other. That we would do anything for each other. That we would go to the ends of the world for each other.”

“Or at least Mexico,” Derek says, picking his head up and giving Stiles a watery smiling. There are tears in his eyes. Derek _never_  cries. Stiles hiccups in relief. 

“I love you so much,” Stiles says, voice dropping down to a whisper. The moment is so fragile, like bird bones and egg shells and frail hearts too full of emotions, bursting with them. 

“I love you, too,” Derek says, raising his head and sitting up so that their faces are level. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, remember?”

“I do,” Stiles says, grin going goofy, remembering when they exchanged vows, the hope between them. Derek smiles at him, warm and real and breathtaking. Maybe they haven’t lost hope completely. 

They don’t bother saying anything else. They still have a lot to talk about, but Stiles’ mind goes blissfully blank when Derek’s hands cup his face. His thumbs stroke gently over Stiles’ cheekbones before he kisses him, lightly at first like he needs permission. 

Stiles huffs and draws him in, kissing him hard. He promises himself that this is the only way he’ll be rough with Derek from now on. Kisses. Kisses and sex and sparring. With everything else, he’ll be gentle. Emotions and love need to be handled with care. Stiles is rough, he’s rough and he’s messed up, but he can do this for Derek. He can be better for Derek, for himself. 

They have forever to figure it out, as long as they _try_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/139612927842/cagamosis-and-sterek-or-dallison)


	20. Scerek: Nonbinary Scott + A Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking a bath together for Lonnie and Beth

 

The tub is already full, steaming, when Scott gets in the bathroom. The clear water reflects the light of the candles set up along the edges of the tub, on the counters, and the window sill. The iPod dock is hooked up on the counter, soft classical playing, just a little white noise.

It makes Scott feel beyond guilty. 

“This is really nice,” Scott says, keeping their voice steady. Derek looks comfortable and relaxed in a pair of tight maroon briefs, hair tussled like he just woke up from a nap. The steam in the bathroom already has his cheeks pinking up. His shoulders are relaxed, pleased smile playing at his lips. 

Scott’s very aware of how out of place they are in their big shirt and basketball shorts. The make up from earlier is probably smeared down their face from when their gender shifted and they suddenly felt the wrongness that accompanied it. Make up is like a costume when that happens. At least that’s something they can erase, unlike the clothes they chose to wear to work.

They dragged themself through the rest of the day with that heavy feeling at the pit of their stomach, and now they’re here and Derek is inviting them to be naked and Scott doesn’t know if they can do it. 

“Why do you smell anxious?” Derek says, shoulders tensing up, on alert. Scott shakes their head at him. There’s no threat or bad news, just Scott’s body and brain being… Scott’s body and brain.

“My gender went weird at work,” they say, with a sigh, gesturing to their clothes. “I don’t know what it’s doing. I don’t know how I feel.”

They shift uncomfortably, waiting for Derek to say something. The bathroom looks really nice, romantic. Scott doesn’t want to mess it up for Derek. Romance is like a _bone_  in Derek’s body, a part of him; Scott knows Derek gets excited when he can express that. 

“Okay, so,” Derek drags out the word, eyes casting around. “What about bubbles?”

“What?”

“If there are enough bubbles, you can’t see your body,” Derek says, eyebrows jumping up. “I don’t have to touch you anywhere that you don’t feel good about. We could face each other.”

Usually when they take baths together, Scott leans against Derek’s broad chest and Derek runs his fingers all over Scott’s skin, just feeling them. It doesn’t escalate, they just sit, cocooned in the steam, bodies touching in a way that’s not urgent.

“I think the bubbles would be okay,” Scott says. If they can’t see their body… “And you can still touch me. Above the waist.”

“Sounds good,” Derek says, leaning back to drain the tub. He ducks under the sink. “How do you feel? Lavender or cherry blossom?”

“Cherry blossom,” Scott says, with a small smile, heart swelling in their chest. When the water is almost all gone, Derek starts up the tap again and dumps half the bottle into the tub. The bubbles start up instantly, piling up higher and higher. 

When Derek switches off the tap, there’s an obscene amount of bubbles. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” Derek says, coming up to them and pressing a kiss to their forehead before spinning around, back to them and away from the mirror, giving them privacy. Aching with relief, they strip down, careful not to look at their body before getting into the tub. 

“Ready,” Scott says, sighing as the hot water leeches the tension from their body. Derek turns and shoves his underwear off, climbing in behind Scott. It takes a minute to arrange their limbs. When they get comfortable, Derek wraps one arm around Scott’s chest, holding them close. His free hand grabs Scott’s, lacing their fingers together. “Thank you.”

“Anything for my favorite person,” Derek says, pressing a kiss to their shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/138113175187/taking-a-bath-together-scerek-bonus-round-nb)


	21. Scerek: Clothes Sharing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Finding the other wearing their clothes for Scott/Derek 

There are few things more surprising than Scott wearing his shirt, asleep on his bed. Very, very few things. In this case, he uses the term ‘bed’ loosely, because it’s two thin twin mattresses pushed together with pillows and blankets piled on top in the corner of an abandoned subway car. 

But, Scott’s there, stripped down to his briefs in one of Derek’s henleys. He’s lying face down, head pillowed on his arms, feet hanging off the edge. He smells warm. Completely out of place in the cool metal of where Derek is squatting. 

The idiot has a home, a family. There’s no reason to steal Derek’s clothes and crash in his bed. Derek taps Scott’s thigh with his boot, full of wonder at how Scott can just _sleep through_  the presence of another werewolf, not to mention an alpha that’s not his own. 

Derek might want Scott to be pack, but Scott made that pretty damn clear that’s not what he wants. 

“Wuh?” Scott rolls over. The henley hitches up, revealing his soft, tan stomach, his happy trail. The outline of his dick is noticeable in his briefs. His hair is sweetly messy, cheeks pillow-creased and pink. The whole image makes Derek want to throw something. 

(Or pin Scott down and scent mark him and suck bruises into his neck. Claim him in a way that’s different than pack, but just as satisfying.)

“What are you doing here?” Derek growls. “Why are you in my shirt? Where are _your_  clothes?”

Scott has the decency to look embarrassed, scrubbing a hand through his hair before gesturing behind Derek. His clothes are in a pile at the entrance of the subway car. Like he just dropped them there and took Derek’s shirt and fell into bed.

“I just needed something to help,” Scott says, finally sitting up, body language closing off as he leans his elbows on his knees. His fingers catch the end of the henley’s sleeves, pulling them over his hands. He looks up at Derek through his thick, dark eyelashes, and Derek has to resist not clawing the shirt off him. 

“Allison and I broke up a little while ago,” he continues, still looking at Derek with that slightly embarrassed look on his face. “I haven’t managed to figure out an anchor. I needed –”

“ _What_?” Derek asks, exasperated, trying to speed the whole conversation along. Scott’s scent is soaked into his shirt and his sheet, his pillows and blankets. It’s making Derek’s attention span shorter, head a little light. 

“You,” Scott says, eyebrows jumping up. “I mean, an alpha. You know.” His blush keeps getting deeper. 

“Fine,” Derek says, to spare him the embarrassment. If he doesn’t stop the conversation, his infuriatingly persistent train of thought, he’s going to do something stupid - like invite Scott to stay the night in his shitty, makeshift bed. “Take that shirt, grab another one. You can switch them out in a couple days.”

“Really - wow, thanks,” Scott says, jumping up. He drifts over to Derek’s suitcase, the sturdy black one he’s been living out of for months. The shirt he grabs is one of Derek’s favorites, but Derek doesn’t say anything, just crosses his arms over his chest and watches. “Thanks, a lot.”

“Don’t mention it,” Derek says, gruffly, watching as Scott pulls on his clothes at the entrance, his favorite shirt thrown over Scott’s bony shoulder. 

“I, uh, yeah, I’ll go,” Scott says, coloring again and ducking his head, shoving his feet into his shoes. He looks like he wants to run.

“Feel free,” Derek says, quickly, before Scott leaves. He schools his face into a scowl, nothing _too_ inviting. “If you’re having trouble with control. You can come here. It’s safer.”

Scott’s face, predictably, splits into a grin, “I appreciate that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek says. He has a feeling he’ll say that a lot whenever he sees Scott. Scott stares at him for a minute longer.

“You should get a real place,” he says, after a minute. “It would beat sleeping on the floor. You don’t have to live in a place like this.”

Derek returns his stare, mind plunging through emotions quickly before settling on a static non-emotion that he considers his default when he doesn’t want to examine things closely.

“Is that permission to move out of my warehouse?” he asks, a little heavy on the sarcasm. Scott visibly startles, shoulders coming up around his ears. 

“You don’t need permission,” he mumbles. He opens his mouth, like he’s going to say something else, but he closes it quickly. “I’m going to go. Bye.”

“Bye, Scott,” Derek says, watching him leave. Things were easier when Scott had a girlfriend and an anchor and was opposed to being in the same room with Derek. Now, his scent is all over Derek’s subway car, and Derek likes it more than he knows that he should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/138117441867/scerek)


	22. Scerek: Skyping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3AM feels

Scott says it over Skype on a Tuesday night, sleepy from a day of classes and an incredibly stressful encounter with an overweight rabbit at Deaton’s. It’s reflex, he knows that much – he Skypes with the pack all the time. Kira in New Mexico, Malia in Miami, Lydia in Washington. Even Stiles – despite the fact that they still live 5 minutes away from each other – Skyping instead of phone calls is practically a time honored tradition. 

Skyping with Derek hasn’t been happening for that long, but it’s happened enough that they have a routine down: get online and settle down, talk about classes, talk about Derek’s time with Cora’s pack, hang up. It’s a pretty similar formula that he has with everyone else and with _them_  he always says it, so it’s _habit_ , honestly. 

Scott’s distracted by the way Derek is sleep rumpled and smiling while he listens to Scott recount his story of Max the Rabbit’s Great Escape, the way his laugh is low, the way his voice is soft. He’s distracted and he absently says, without a second thought – “I love you, goodnight.”

_I love you, goodnight._

Like he says to Malia and Lydia and Kira when they Skype before bed. Like he says to Stiles when it’s 3AM and Stiles calls him to talk about Ancient Aliens, and how wrong the whole program is. Like he says to his _mom_  after he reminds her to eat something with a vegetable before she pulls an all nighter. 

Except he’s never, _ever_ said it to Derek in any way shape or form. He hasn’t ever been able to say it casually. It’s  _Derek_ and Scott has pretty much always _felt things_ for Derek, so as much as he’s wanted to say it, he hasn’t been able to.

It would mean too much to him. 

But now, he’s said it and it’s too late to play it off – he’s frozen in a flinch, eyes wide and staring at Derek. A lot like Max the Rabbit earlier, when Scott managed to corner him, little chest fluttering rapidly, ears twitching nervously. 

“Night,” Scott says, rushed, face flaming hot, stomach souring. The wild careening of Scott’s heart is too loud in his ears, drowning all of his other senses in white noise.

“Night, Scott,” Derek says, frowning, right before Scott hangs up quickly, screen going black. 

Except it doesn’t stay black. The dumb ringtone bubbles through his speakers as Derek calls him back. Scott’s tempted to ignore it, or throw his laptop out the window, but he knows he shouldn’t. It would make everything that much more obvious. 

He accepts the call, but doesn’t say anything. Derek moved, he’s sitting up now, staring at the screen with a concerned expression. Scott wants to die. There’s no way he’s living this down. 

No one says anything. 

There should be a greeting or some kind of statement, but they’re watching each other, barely breathing. Scott feels like his going to choke on his mortification, too afraid to speak – he would either word vomit in a spectacularly clumsy way, or say it again and again and again until Derek told him to shut up and –

“Scott,” Derek says. It sounds curious, not accusatory. Scott can work with that.

“Derek?” Scott asks, trying to feign innocence. His heart is beating too loudly for that, and Derek can definitely hear it.

“Why did you hang up?” Derek asks. He’s being patient, Scott doesn’t want to have this conversation right now. Or ever, probably. 

“We were done talking,” Scott says, with a shrug. He swallows, hands curling into loose fists on his lap. They’re sweaty, but he doesn’t want to bring attention to them by wiping them off on his pants. 

“Right,” Derek says. There’s more silence. Derek’s staring at Scott, and Scott is doing a terrible job of avoiding his gaze. “But what you said before you hung up –”

“’Goodbye’?” Scott prompts, looking at his lap. This is terrible. 

“Before that,” Derek prods. Scott looks at the ceiling. He might cry if he can’t swallow down this tight feeling in his chest. He really wishes Derek had ignored the whole thing, let it slide. 

“I was telling you about Max the Rabbit,” Scott says, wincing. Fuck. 

“ _Scott_ ,” Derek says, sharply. Scott looks up, frowning at him. 

“ _Derek_ ,” he says, the same tone. Derek huffs, big chest expanding and compressing as he sighs heavily. The action makes Scott listen to Derek’s breathing, his heart – it’s fast and heavy. Scott’s frown deepens –

Oh. 

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, eyes jumping to Derek face. Derek’s staring at him, mouth slack, eyebrows raised. They’re probably wearing pretty similar expressions. 

“Do you –?” Scott doesn’t actually know how to ask if Derek feels… the same way? Something similar? 

“Did you mean it?” Derek asks, trampling over Scott’s attempt to wrestle his brain into submission and find the words to vaguely reference their emotions in a way that’s not an outright question. It’s probably better this way.

“Of course,” Scott says, indignant. He knows he could make excuses right now, prolong the inevitable. He could remind Derek that he says it to the whole pack – Liam, Mason, Hayden, even Corey. He could tell Derek they’re really good friends, of course he loves Derek, they’ve been through too much. But he leaves it at that.

 _Of course_. 

“Me too,” Derek says. Scott’s mouth unhinges in surprise. Derek clears his throat, watching Scott. Even through the computer screen, Scott can see how vulnerable Derek looks, how sincere. “I love you, too.”

“Really?” Scott asks, sounding breathless and excited. He’s grinning. He can’t help himself. There’s a pleased smile on Derek’s face, too. 

“Yeah, of course,” he says. 

That’s the best thing Scott’s heard all day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/143053852877)


	23. Scerek: Step Brothers AU (nsfw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not ficcin', pseudo incest

Scott’s always hero-worshiped Derek from afar, admittedly had a crush on him. Derek pretty much defined his sexuality in middle school. he was this cocky jock, a year older and popular and extremely good looking. Scott was just. into him. a ridiculous amount. 

Scott’s always avoided Derek while their parents were dating and they were dating for _years_. Scott was the weird kid in middle school and the Hales were always kind of a big deal when it came to athletics while Scott had asthma. Scott clicked with Cora and Laura pretty easily, they were sister material, but he and Derek didn’t. 

their moms go and get _married_ when Scott’s a freshman, talking about getting a house together and Scott’s always been an only child (with the exception of Stiles), so it’s just a weird thought for him to be surrounded by people. 

of course, he shares a room with Derek while Cora and Laura share a room. it’s strange not to have his own space. he withdraws because he doesn’t know how to deal with it, so Derek thinks he doesn’t like the family, which causes issues. they fight in that kind of passive aggressive, pissy way that siblings do. maybe Derek fucks with him at school like makes commenting in passing, calls him ‘little brother’ in a snide, condescending way that makes Scott want to punch him. there’s tension okay, a lot of tension. 

Stiles knows about Scott’s total boner for Derek (’is it weird now that you’re brothers? do you have to stop wanting to fuck him now that your parents are married?’) and gets all protective about how much of a dick Derek’s being. it starts this weird rivalry between them all, which carries over at home.

Melissa and Talia notice, but they’re trying not to pry because the boys are old enough to deal with their issues on their own, but it’s not really conducive to a happy environment because Derek’s always growling at Scott, which makes Scott withdraw more and get snappy. 

(’stop calling me your little brother.’ - ‘you _are_  my little brother now, so _deal_.’)

it’s worse at night, when they have to sleep. Derek stays up late and wants the light on, and Scott insists he needs sleep. they’re always bickering about space and mess and whatever else they can find to argue about. they’re living on top of each other, going to school together, and they don’t have space for themselves.

not being able to jerk off is getting to Scott. like, the fact he has to deal with Derek being a dick at home and at school, surrounded by people all the time, _and_ he can’t get off. it’s a terrible combination. he can’t even jerk it in the shower because there are three other people who need the bathroom. 

Derek solves that whole thing by… jerking off. Scott’s pretty sure Derek thinks he’s asleep, but he’s really not and he can hear all of Derek’s movements, the soft slap of skin on skin as he fists his dick. it’s the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to him and he’s achingly hard by the time Derek comes with a soft hitch of his breath. 

it happens more than once. all the time. almost every night when Derek finally goes to bed. sometimes Scott is still up, sometimes he wakes up to the creaking of Derek’s bed, the shuffle of his blankets (he’s a light sleeper, okay?). it just leaves Scott with blue balls, still unable to jerk off. the one time he does, he’s in the shower and barely gets his hand on his dick before Cora’s pounding on the door asking him when he’ll be done. 

that’s the breaking point. he hears Derek jerking off again that night and he just flips over and sits up and whisper-yells, ‘will you fucking stop?’ and Derek looks at him _calmly_  like he doesn’t have his hand around his dick (under the blanket, but still).

‘why?’

‘because I haven’t jerked off for weeks and you keep doing it and it’s driving me fucking crazy.’ he’s trying to be quiet, but he’s pissed, voice going high and okay, he’s more than a little hard, has been since he heard Derek start to move, but he’s done with the blue balls.

‘did you forget how to jerk off?’ Derek asks, smirking at him. that makes Scott’s brain slam to a halt, like what the fuck. Derek mirrors him, sitting up. Scott’s reminded just how small their room is, how close their beds are. he can see Derek pretty well, the way the blanket pools around his waist - oh god. 

‘no, but I’m considerate and don’t do it while my step brother is in the room!’

‘why not?’ Derek asks, raising an eyebrow at Scott’s lap. Scott flushes and tightens his hold on his blanket. Derek looks at him and leans back, goes back to doing… whatever. Scott’s not going to dive in immediately, because he’s not like that, but it only takes a few more nights for him to get frustrated again. 

he probably gets off on his side, facing away from Derek, grinding into his hand. he’s embarrassed and hot and the most turned on he’s ever been in his life. he tries to be quiet, but after he comes, he hears Derek say, ‘that wasn’t so bad, was it?’

it just becomes this thing that they do. they’re not always quiet, some nights when Scott’s feeling bold, he breathes a little louder. because screw Derek. if Scott has to deal with Derek’s noises, Derek has to deal with his. everything at school and during the day is normal - by normal, he means _tense_  - but Scott can recognize that this is not _really_ normal. 

it’s not really normal for him to want to hear Derek while he gets off, or for Derek to come into the bathroom while he’s showering and get ready while he’s in there; giving Scott extra time to get off. it’s not really normal when they start to turn towards each other, watching each other while they jerk off.

especially since Derek still says ‘little brother’ in that infuriating tone of his. it’s not really normal for Scott to _like it_ when he does, getting that little thrill down his spine.

it’s not really normal when Derek decides to come over to him one night, obviously hard, palming Scott through his shorts, watching Scott as he arches into Derek’s touch. it’s not really normal for Derek to get him off, hand clasped tightly around him, whispering in his ear - telling him not to be loud, asking if he’s going to come. it’s not normal for them to kiss hotly while Derek guides Scott’s hand and shows him what to do. 

it’s not _really_ normal to hide what they’re doing from the rest of the family, but they’re not _really_  brothers, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/137959932172/whispers-scerek-step-brothers-au-where-melissa)


	24. Scerek: Alt. Step Brothers AU (nsfw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one is a little different from the last one. for Dev.

Derek definitely knows what he’s doing, he’s Experienced. Scott, on the other hand, doesn’t… really. He’s jerked off tons, like a normal teenager, but touching _other_  people isn’t something that he’s done. The closest _he’s_  gotten is palming Stiles’ dick through his shorts while they were stoned, and they giggled so much that they decided to abandon that plan altogether. So, when Scott and Derek start… whatever it is they’re doing, Scott’s intimidated as hell. 

At first, it’s fine. They’re only jerking off at the same time, that’s do-able. But, that leads to Derek coming over to Scott’s bed and wanting to touch him and taking Scott’s hand and putting it on his dick and Scott just _pretends_  because they don’t _talk_  about what they’re doing. They don’t say _anything_  between the heavy pants and stifled moans. It’s a silent exchange, and Scott can’t bring himself to say, “hey, so I’ve never even touched someone’s dick before, gimme some pointers”. So, he doesn’t say anything. 

Instead, he talks in hypotheticals to Stiles (who probably knows something is going on, but won’t ask because it’s _Stiles_ ) and _Googles_  and _maybe_ practices blow jobs on popsicles (what does ‘cover your teeth’ even _mean_?). 

They just… go with the flow. Scott knows he’s probably not great. Like, handjobs? It’s distracting when Derek climbs on top of him and touches his dick, Scott can barely focus on what he’s feeling, let alone what he’s doing. The fact that Derek keeps coming back must be a good sign. 

Scott decides to blow Derek because he’s run out of popsicles and he _might as well_. Derek’s thighs flex under his palms and he runs his hands through Scott’s hair, so he must be doing _something_  right. When Derek blows Scott, he comes in exactly three seconds, but Derek doesn’t seem to mind, if his smug smile is anything to go by. 

Scott doesn’t actually expect Derek to want to fuck him, but he’s thought about it a lot. Thought about Derek flipping him over and opening him up with thick fingers; he’s thought about whether or not it would hurt. He’s thought about Derek leaving marks on his neck for _proof_. He’s thought about the way his body would ache. Maybe Derek would make him beg, throw him around. Maybe Derek would fuck him on his back, looming over him, fingers laced together. Maybe Derek would finally say _something_ , maybe Derek would say “Scott” softly, as he came inside of him. 

The idea makes Scott’s whole body hot, so when Derek says, “I want to try something”, Scott doesn’t hesitate. It’s only after they’re naked that he’s gets nervous. Derek’s fingers are _huge_ , Derek is _huge_. 

Of course, Derek notices he’s tense, who _wouldn’t_. Of course, that’s when Derek decides to speak.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and it sounds so out of place, shatters the silence and makes the tension even worse.

“Nothing,” Scott lies, but he can’t relax at all. They’re naked. Derek’s between his legs, and he can’t calm down. 

“Don’t lie to me,” Derek says, sternly, but his eyebrows are creased in concern. 

“I’m not,” Scott says. It’s too quick. Derek sits back and stares at him. 

“Have you done this before?” Derek asks. The look he’s giving Scott is. It’s a lot. 

“No,” Scott admits, wishing that he wasn’t naked, wishing there was some barrier between them. He never actually wanted Derek to find out.

“But you and Stiles…” Derek says, frowning. Scott’s chest tightens. 

“What?” he asks, voice a whisper.

“I thought you guys… did this.”

“No,” Scott says, quickly. Before he realizes it, he’s scrambling back against the pillows, legs falling closed. The blanket is on the other side of Derek, too far away. “Stiles and I aren’t like that.”

“Like…?”

“Like _this_ ,” Scott says, gesturing between them. They don’t touch each other, they don’t make each other orgasm. If he was doing all this with Stiles they would have at least _kissed_ by now. They would have _talked_  about it. 

“You don’t fuck?” Derek asks, still confused. Scott wants to throw something at him.

“No,” he says, shortly.

“At all?”

“No,” Scott says, wrapping his arms around his legs. There’s a tight feeling behind his eyes. He’s prepared for… what? For Derek to laugh at him, for Derek to leave the bed, for Derek to not want to keep doing… this.

“None of it?” Derek asks. Scott is definitely going to throw something at him. 

“ _No_ ,” he says. The knot in his chest gets worse. “I haven’t done anything with _him_. I haven’t done anything with _anyone_.”

Scott has no experience at all. It’s not as if he’s been _lying_  to Derek, though. They don’t _talk about it_. 

“What?” Derek asks, a little louder, eyes wide. Scott stares at him. “You’re a virgin?”

“I _was_ ,” Scott says, sharply.

“I didn’t know,” Derek says. He hasn’t blinked. 

“Well,” Scott says, looking away, clearing his throat. His whole body is thrumming with poorly restrained panic. “Now you do.”

“ _Scott_ ,” Derek says. It’s not firm, not angry. It’s upset? Soft, sad? Scott chances a glance at Derek’s face. It’s awful and vulnerable. Scott blinks at him. “I’m _sorry_.”

“What –” Scott doesn’t get his question out, Derek’s pressing their lips together roughly. Scott gasps, making their teeth hit. Derek doesn’t seem to care. He licks into Scott’s mouth, wraps his hand around the back of Scott’s neck and brings him closer. Scott goes easily, because he can’t refuse this.

It’s better than Scott thought it would be; impossibly sweet and gentle. Derek gets him off before he fingers Scott open, makes him feel good. He makes Scott whimper with every touch of his hands and his lips. He keeps Scott on his back so they can look at each other, kisses him hotly as they grind together. He says Scott’s name when he comes, like a prayer, like a promise.

Scott regrets not saying anything anything sooner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/141766373072/whispers-we-havent-talked-about)


	25. Scerek: Same Age AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scerek + "Are you ticklish?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon prompt!

There’s a giant dog stalking him. 

It’s been following him through the Preserve for a really long time. At first he didn’t notice, too preoccupied with exploring. Usually he doesn’t come out this far, but he felt brave today. His mom’s on late shift, Stiles had detention. The perfect storm for a little spontaneity. 

Scott regrets it deeply, now. Because of the dog. 

Scott is small for 14. Skin and bones and incredibly asthmatic. His hair is too long, his face is too soft. He probably looks like _prey_. Even if the dog won’t eat him, it’ll try to bury his bones in the woods somewhere.

He’s freaking out, a little bit. He can hear it, padding behind him slowly. No matter which way Scott decides to turn, it’s paws aren’t far behind. The one time Scott got up the courage to look behind him, there it was. 

It’s _huge_. Deep brown coat, gleaming yellow eyes.

Scott is going to die. 

He adjusts his grasp on his backpack a little tighter and turns right, making a wide circle so that maybe he’ll get back to the road. His heart is pounding in his chest, hard. Running will probably aggravate the thing, and then he won’t be able to breathe on top of everything else, so he keeps his pace steady, calm as he can. 

The dog follows him to the road and stops at the edge. There’s silence behind Scott as he walks away towards the edge of the Preserve. No more steps behind him. 

When he gets to the road, he chances a glance back. It’s still watching him with that mile long stare, making Scott’s pulse trip up once again. Creepy as hell, but it doesn’t bother following him any further.

 

 

“It was huge!” Scott tells Stiles, holding his hands out wide. “It followed me around for like an hour!”

They’re wandering around the Preserve, trying to lure the dog out with Scott’s presence. He needs Stiles to see how intimidating the thing is. 

“A giant black dog?” Stiles asks, lazily swirling a Twizzler in his mouth. Scott’s not even sure where he got the Twizzlers, but he doesn’t say no when Stiles offers him some. “You got the grim?”

“Shut up,” Scott groans, throwing a waded up piece of paper at Stiles’ head. It’s probably his math homework, now that he thinks about it. “It was weird, okay? Kind of freaky.”

“Don’t be scared of a stray, dude,” Stiles says, throwing his arm over Scott’s shoulder. It’s probably supposed to be reassuring, but Stiles is chewing loudly and that’s just gross. “I’ll protect you. We can challenge it, to defend your honor.”

“We’re like 200 pounds combined weight,” Scott says, shoving Stiles off. “We probably couldn’t take the dog.”

“You’re right,” Stiles says, mournfully. “It doesn’t look like it’s going to show up again, either, so it doesn’t matter.”

Stiles is right. Not today. 

“Whatever,” Scott says, clearly disappointed. 

 

 

The dog decides to show up the next time Scott’s alone. Scott thought it might, that’s why he didn’t bring Stiles. He doesn’t know why, but he thinks the dog is there for _him_. Just him, no one else. 

It’s a weird feeling, but the dog situation is really weird. 

Scott’s sitting by the pond skipping stones when it shows up. He was waiting for it, that’s why he chose to sit. It’s silly, but he wants to, like, talk to it, maybe. It won’t understand him, but Scott doesn’t think it matters. 

“Why are you following me?” Scott asks. It’s a ways away at the edge of the trees, sitting and watching. It cocks its head. 

Now that they’re closer, Scott can see how thick its fur is, how big its ears are. 

“Stiles told me there aren’t any wolves in California,” he says, voice a little high. Talking out loud makes him feel less terrified. “You better not be one.”

Scott can hear the dog huff from where he’s sitting. That’s a surprise. He straightens up, narrowing his eyes. 

“Are you one?” he asks, seriously. The dog cocks his head to the side, doesn’t respond. Typical. “Well, I hope not.”

They watch each other until Scott’s legs cramp and the sun starts to set. Luckily, he doesn’t have to walk around the dog to get to the road. He sets off, but turns at the tree line, taking another look. They’ll probably see each other again soon. Scott waves goodbye.

 

 

There’s a howl outside Scott’s window. Low and throaty. Scott’s heart jumps in his throat and he absolutely does not freak out, absolutely not. There’s another howl and Scott pulls the blanket over his head, like that will help.

 

 

“What do you _want_  from me?” Scott asks. The dog has edged closer, a couple of feet away now. Staring at him. What the hell. “I’m pretty sure you’re not going to eat me, or you would have already.”

The dog cocks its head at him. That’s probably a ‘yes’.

“Whatever it is, I doubt I can help you,” Scott says, with a sigh. “I didn’t think to bring you any food, sorry.” Maybe he’ll do that tomorrow. 

The dog doesn’t answer. Scott gets up and leaves.

 

 

“Now, you’re being weird,” Scott says, putting down his homework. Never mind that he’s out in the Preserve, doing his homework against a tree while he hangs out with a stray wolf-dog. It’s sitting right next to him today. There’s only a handful of inches between it’s haunches and his leg. This is so strange. 

“I’m working on a take home essay,” Scott tells the dog. There’s nothing else to do. It’s determined to be near him, he might as well engage it or whatever. “I don’t like english, but this year I’m in honors and my mom is really excited about that.”

The dog doesn’t say anything. 

“I’m not really bad at it,” Scott admits. “Sometimes I get bored and I slack off. That’s why I have a B in this class. Stiles is the same way. We probably enable each other or whatever.”

The dog cocks its head. Curious, maybe.

“Stiles is my best friend. I tried to bring him out here the other day, but you weren’t around.” Scott looks at the dog with narrow eyes, but it doesn’t give any indication that it knows what he’s talking about. 

“I think you were avoiding us,” Scott tells it.

The dog huffs loudly. That makes Scott laugh, a big belly laugh that he can’t help. He strokes his hand through the dog’s fur without thinking. The dog freezes under his hand, looking at him.

“Sorry,” Scott says, patting its head. It nudges his hand and gives him an expectant look. Surprised, Scott keeps petting it. “Well, cool. You’re practically domestic.”

The dog stays silent, but the silence feels unimpressed. Whatever.

They go on like that for a handful of minutes. Scott petting, the dog not moving as he does. He gets more bold, scratching the top of the dog’s head, its ears. He pets down its back in long sweeping strokes. 

When he curves his hand over its belly, the dog huffs and wriggles. Scott frowns and does it again. Another huff. Another wriggle. 

“Are you _ticklish_?” Scott demands, delighted. The dog stares at him, unimpressed. Scott takes his hand off, palm face up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. That’s hilarious.”

Another huff. This time, less amused.

“I’m done,” Scott promises, patting the dog’s head and turning back to his homework. It’s boring. He hates  _Metamorphosis_  and that’s the book the essay is for. All he got from that was graphic depiction of bug nastiness and not much else. 

He tips his head against the tree behind him, eyes slipping shut. Just for a moment, to take a break. 

 

 

The sun is setting when he wakes up, disoriented and completely confused. His pencil is still held loosely in his hand, but the notebook slid off his nap at one point, dropping into the dirt. He took a nap against a tree. Awesome.

He looks next to him to see if the dog is still there –

“What the fuck?!” Scott yelps, jumping up and away. That’s definitely – there’s _definitely_  – there’s a naked boy curled up on the ground next to him. Oh that’s not weird at all. 

The kid is waking up before Scott has a moment to _think_ , frowning sharply like Scott _disturbed him_  or something. 

“What are you – _who_  are you? Why –”

“Fuck, sorry,” the kid says, voice scratchy. He’s watching Scott with soft grey-blue eyes, blinking at him sleepily. “Can’t hold my shift when I’m sleeping.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Scott has literally no idea what is going on. Or where this kid came from. He’s incredibly displeased when the kid drags his notebook into his lap to cover himself up. Scott’s going to need a new notebook. 

“You’re wrong,” the kid says, instead of answering. “There are wolves in California.” Scott watches as the kid’s eyes flash yellow and then revert. The same bright gold as the… dog. The same eyes as the dog. Scott takes a step back. 

“Is that code?” Scott asks. He might sound a little hysterical. “Am I losing my mind?”

“Nah, you’re not,” the kid says, shrugging. He gives Scott a sheepish grin and rubs his hand through his hair. “My mom is going to be so pissed about this.”

“About?”

“You seeing me shift,” the kid says, rising. He stretches his arms over his head, yawning, and Scott very pointedly looks at a tree over his shoulder. 

“I didn’t see anything,” Scott says, quickly, still really confused. “I woke up with you next to me!”

“Don’t worry about it,” the kid says, shaking his head. He takes another look at Scott before shrugging and – his whole body shakes and blurs and shrinks and in the next instance, the dog is there, watching him. 

“Oh fuck,” Scott says, faintly. It – he – the wolf-kid. Wolf person? Werewolf? What the fuck – it huffs at him and trots away, leaving Scott behind with his mouth hanging open in disbelief. 

 

 

By the next afternoon, he’s managed to convince himself it was a very vivid dream brought on by falling asleep in the woods. It was disorienting, is all. It was nothing. There was definitely no kid. Definitely not a kid who turns into a wolf. Dog. Wolf-dog. 

It was all just a dream. 

A dream, he repeats, as he bounds down the stairs when the doorbell rings. He pulls the door open, expecting Stiles. 

It’s not Stiles. 

It’s the kid from yesterday. Fully clothed this time, hair gelled into a respectable style. He’s wearing a leather jacket and heavy boots and he’s _grinning_  at Scott. Scott’s heart tumbles around in his chest. 

“I’m Derek, by the way,” the kid says, holding his hand out. “Nice to actually meet you.”

After weeks of hanging out with him pretending to be a dog? Right.

Scott shakes his hand. 

“Nice to meet you, too,” he says, and hopes he means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [reblog](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/147283155107/theres-a-giant-dog-stalking-him-its-been)


	26. Scerek: First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scerek + “Our first date is a picnic on a beach under the stars? Have you swallowed a romance novel? Do I need to call a doctor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Abby

Dating Scott is intimidating because Scott is the _perfect_  boyfriend. He’s always thoughtful, always caring. He asks about Derek’s day, brings Derek lunch when he has a short day at the clinic. He reminds Derek to do things like get his car washed and do laundry before he runs out of clean button downs. He kisses ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ and ‘just because’ – smiling softly with his eyes in a way that makes Derek dizzy. 

They’ve only been talking for a grand total of three weeks, but Derek wants to ask him to move in and arrange their futures together and adopt a dog. Or a cat, or an iguana. _Something_ that’s theirs, the two of them. He wants to wrap his life around Scott and – okay, he’s rushing himself, his thoughts, but like he said, Scott is perfect. 

Derek is less perfect. He forgets to say what he means most of the time. He has all of these endlessly romantic thoughts about Scott that don’t ever manage to leave his mouth, too caught up in the haze of it, the overwhelming feelings that come with those thoughts. 

It’s too cheesy, too overbearing, too _much_. It’s stupid, Derek knows, but he can’t shake the fear that he’ll chase Scott away by expressing everything he wants to express. So, he keeps it all to himself.  

It doesn’t seem like Scott minds. There hasn’t been any indication that he resents how absent minded Derek can be, but Derek decides he needs to try harder anyway. Scott deserves it. The romance, the wooing. 

They haven’t managed to go on a real date yet, so Derek decides to start there. 

Scott probably counts everything they’ve done so far as a date, because he’s like that. He probably counts eating take out in Derek’s office, the nights where they crash on his couch to watch movies. He probably counts the cruises that they take in Derek’s car, little breaks from the day that Derek enjoys, but he doesn’t necessarily think _qualify._

Maybe Derek has dumb standards, he’s not sure. But, they need to have a real first date. 

Scott giggles when Derek tells him this. It’s not a laugh, he’s not laughing at Derek, but he definitely giggles. 

“Why do we need a ‘real’ first date?” Scott asks, snuggling into Derek’s side. They’re watching Netflix again. One of those not-date things that they’ve been doing. 

“Because I said so,” Derek says, screwing up his face. Scott giggles again, patting his cheek, retracting his hand quickly when Derek pretends he’s going to bite it. 

“That’s a good reason,” Scott says, around a smile. He’s humoring Derek, but Derek isn’t going to keep arguing. Instead, he pulls Scott onto his lap and spends the rest of the movie plotting.

 

 

Figuring out a date is a lot harder than talking Scott into going on a date. 

“This is what shame feels like,” Lydia says. She’s sitting on his desk with her ankle crossed, looking at his computer screen out of the corner of her eye. The look on her face is pure disdain. 

“I don’t have _ideas_ ,” Derek mumbles, flushing. 

“ _Shame_  Hale, pure shame,” Lydia says. “You can’t just _google_  ‘romantic date ideas’ and pick one randomly. That’s really sad and boring.”

“You’re really sad and boring,” Derek retorts. Totally clever. Lydia snorts at him, not even bothering to reply. The judgement is too much, he exits out of the browser, defeated. “I’ll think of something.”

“Eventually,” she says, nodding in agreement. Without missing a beat, she adds, “Scott’s here with your lunch.”

“He is,” Derek says, with a resigned sigh. Because Scott is a _perfect_ boyfriend. 

A perfect boyfriend who beams at him and presents him with pad Thai when he comes through the door. He drags a chair from around the desk and plops his feet in Derek’s lap while they eat, asking about Derek’s day in between bites. 

He kisses Derek goodbye when he leaves, promises to meet up with Derek at the bar so they can hang out with Lydia and Jordan. Five minutes after the door closes behind him, Derek gets a text: _miss you already :(_

Scott is perfect and Derek needs to think of the best date ever. 

 

 

“Our first date is a picnic on a beach under the stars? Have you swallowed a romance novel? Do I need to call a doctor?” 

“ _Scott_.” Derek’s whining, but he doesn’t care. The date is a bastardization of a couple of other ideas, things they both enjoy. It took a decent amount of effort arrange it properly, even.  

“I’m just kidding,” Scott says, seriously, stepping up to Derek to hold his hand. “It’s really incredibly sweet. Very thoughtful.”

“Yeah?” Derek asks, resisting the urge to drag his toe along the sand shyly. 

“Yeah, I’m totally surprised,” Scott says, ducking his head and grinning. There’s moonlight highlighting his cheeks, caught in his eyes. He’s the most beautiful person Derek’s ever seen. “When you said date, I was thinking we’d end up doing like dinner and the movies.”

“Not for our first date,” Derek says, aware that he sounds grumpy. 

“It’s not –”

“It is our first date,” Derek interrupts, keeping his voice firm. Scott’s mouth wiggles at the corner, like he’s trying not to laugh. “I’m declaring it.”

“Consider it declared,” Scott says, very seriously. Derek appreciates the effort. 

“I wanted it to be special,” Derek admits, flapping his hand at the picnic blanket. There are sandwiches in the cooler, fresh fruit, and homemade cupcakes. He brought his speakers so he can play them some music – _mood music._ There’s a night sky app on his phone for when they’re done eating, so that they can pick out constellations. Lydia would probably be proud of him. 

Probably.

“Oh Derek.” Scott’s got this soft look on his face, like he knows everything Derek isn’t saying. Like he knows just how hard Derek felt he needed to _try_  with this. The type of look that makes Derek feel stripped bare and shivery. 

“Scott –”

“Everything we do is special,” Scott says, hand brushing along Derek’s cheek. “Every moment I’m with you is special.”

Derek can’t help the groan that escapes him. The look on Scott’s face makes him feel terrible about it, though. 

“You’re a lot better at that than I am,” Derek says, lowly, words catching in his throat. Scott is still looking at him in confusion. “Talking about it. Being thoughtful. Romantic.”

“Derek, it’s not a competition,” Scott says. It sounds disbelieving. Derek fights the urge to bury his face in his hands. This definitely isn’t a conversation he envisioned them having tonight. 

“I know,” Derek says, quickly, looking out at the waves, trying to stop himself from feeling panicked. It’s just a talk. About his emotions. He can do this. “I want you to know, though. How I feel. About you.”

“I know how you feel about me,” Scott says, so gently. He’s frowning, Derek hates making him frown. 

“I don’t really talk about my feelings, though,” Derek argues. He doesn’t know why. Scott’s not the type to be dishonest, he wouldn’t lie to Derek about this, but Derek can’t help pursuing it. “I don’t, like, prove it to you.”

“You do!” Scott protests. “I know you, Derek. You do.”

“I want you to be sure,” Derek says. It sounds so small in the space between them. Maybe that’s what this is. He’s afraid of it, of Scott. Of Scott not knowing how he feels, thinking that this could be casual because Derek can’t make himself _tell Scott_  everything. 

Because he can’t make himself tell Scott that he’s in love with him. 

“I am sure,” Scott says. It’s so sincere, so honest that Derek has no choice but to believe him. “You’re pretty perfect. I know how much you care about me. You don’t think you make it obvious, but you do. I don’t know how I know, I just know.”

“I love you,” Derek blurts out, because he has to. Scott beams at him, unsurprised and delighted. 

“I know that, too,” he says. He runs his thumb along Derek’s jaw and smiles like he won’t ever stop. Derek doesn’t ever want him to stop. “And I love you, too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [reblog on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/147278921547/dating-scott-is-intimidating-because-scott-is-the)


	27. Scerek: Post Break Up

_Maybe I’m in over my head,_  
Or maybe I just miss the familiar contours of your body under the chalk white sheets of my bed  
I don’t know, maybe this is normal  
Maybe I stopped being myself after you left…

// [**Maybe**](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fsoundcloud.com%2Fryehighproductions%2Fmaybe-a-spoken-word-poem&t=YWQwOTVhOTAzNDdmOGQzN2MxNTBmOWZmYTBkMDliNTlmZTM2YTMwYyxXaWg2OVJWVA%3D%3D)

The rain drizzles over the city, clouds low and gloomy and heavy and grey. The blue smoke from his cigarette snakes out in front of him, but Derek isn’t actually smoking it, just holding it, just watching it burn down, ash getting longer until it falls off onto the damp concrete below him. 

The Eifel Tower is a smudge in the distance. Paris looks downtrodden, and Derek wonders if he’s projecting his mood onto the weather or if the weather is projecting its mood onto him. 

There’s paint all over his skin. He can smell the harsh chemicals of it when he finally takes a drag, cigarette nearly gone, burning up in his lungs. Not quite satisfying, since it’s only been 20 minutes since his last one. 

That’s what he does when he’s stuck. Chain smokes and watches the skyline, praying for inspiration. Anything to get the image of raven black hair and bottomless brown eyes and that menacing mouth, quirked into a smile, out of his head. 

Derek sinks lower into his mood, flicking the cigarette into a puddle so that it burns out, damp. 

Scott hated it when he smoked. 

Scott hated it when he smoked. And when he stayed up all night finishing a project. Complained about the bags under his eyes, pressed his thumb to the thin, bruised skin there. Asked if Derek had eaten, mouth twisting when Derek said he forgot.

Scott hated when Derek didn’t take care of himself. And when Derek got too caught up in his head, unsure of his own feelings. When he snuck out before Scott woke up so he could have some space to breathe. When he couldn’t admit his feelings out loud, tried to paint them or draw them or touch Scott in a way that would make him _know_. 

Scott wanted words, he wanted reassurance, but Derek was insecure and paralyzed. And Scott pretended like it didn’t matter, like the kisses Derek pressed to his smooth skin were enough. Pretended like Derek was making up for it when he pinned Scott to the sheets and ate him out until he was quivering under the hard press of Derek’s hands. Pretended like coming down Derek’s throat and bruising up the thin skin of Derek’s collarbone was enough. 

Like they didn’t need words, after that. 

But they did, and Derek hasn’t ever been a poet, so he didn’t have them. He only had images of Scott behind his eyelids – the wings of his shoulder, the curve of his lower back, his round ass, and thick thighs. He had a paint palette of colors in his mind – red for the cherry of Scott’s lips, yellow for the sunshine in his smile, calla lily black for the curl of his hair on his forehead. 

Scott had words. Scott carried around reassurances like loose change in his pocket. Scott let feelings trip off his tongue, stone cold sober in the early morning as he watched Derek make coffee like it was the most fascinating thing that he had ever seen. Like Derek standing in the kitchen with his bed head and pillow-creased skin was his favorite thing to look at. 

And maybe it was. Maybe that’s all that Scott really needed. Maybe Scott was content with sliding his arms around Derek’s waist and dancing them around the kitchen. Maybe he was happy with Derek’s charcoal smudged hands leaving black streaks on his skin. Maybe it was okay that Derek needed to leave Scott’s apartment before he drowned in how domestic they had become. Maybe he accepted how scared Derek was. 

But Derek didn’t. Couldn’t. It wasn’t fair to Scott when he looked at Derek with softness and affection while Derek stared back with the critical eye of an artist. Calculating the angle his arm made, pillowed under his head. Wondering what paints he would have to mix to get the hue of Scott’s eyes during twilight. Eyeing the long line of his neck while thinking about painting it with red and purpling bruises.

Maybe that was Derek’s form of love, so focused on one person that they occupied all the creative spaces in his brain. That’s how he feels now.

Every color that ends up on a canvas is directly from a swatch found with Scott. The sandy hues of his skin, the cotton candy pink of his lips, the dark of his eyelashes, the ruddy hue of his cheeks when he blushed, the same color as the head of his cock when he was hard. 

Every new drawing begins to look like him. It starts as lines, but it doesn’t take long before it becomes Scott’s delicate hands, the sharp v lines of his hips, the gentle slope of his nose, the moles on his skin like dark constellations. 

He can’t draw or paint or think about anything that isn’t Scott, and he has to remind himself that he’s the one who left. He’s the one who decided to leave, to spend a year in Paris – for inspiration, like a cliche fuck. He’s the one who didn’t ask Scott to come with him. He’s the one who stood in the doorway and watched Scott’s face fall as he told him. 

He’s the one that walked away. 

Derek takes out his phone and pulls up the drafts, the unsent text messages hoarded there. 

Unsent _seems like I’ve got all the time in the world maybe I should do something about it_

Unsent _I mean, every minute feels like an hour_

Unsent _Maybe I’m a fool for distancing myself from you_

Unsent _Maybe thats why I couldn’t admit I loved you_

Unsent _Because for some reason I couldn’t accept that maybe, just maybe, you might have loved me too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reblog on [tumblr!](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/148018225597/maybe-im-in-over-my-head-or-maybe-i-just-miss)


End file.
